


like flowers soaked in monochrome

by deathsweetqueen



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Steve Rogers, Depressed Steve Rogers, Depression, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt Steve Rogers, Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Insecure Tony Stark, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Medical Intervention, Nuclear Warfare, Oral Sex, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Secret Identity, Smut, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Is Not Okay, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Steve Rogers is Not a Nazi, Survivor Guilt, Tired Steve Rogers, Top Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 05:52:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15188219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathsweetqueen/pseuds/deathsweetqueen
Summary: Steve Rogers woke up to a world where everyone he loved and knew had forged on without him. But this world, it's nothing like he's used. It wants something brutal from him, something unforgiving. There are so many compromises to make. There are too many monsters behind kind smiles.But if it means keeping Tony safe, if it means protecting him, he's willing to do whatever it takes.He can't be soft.After all, the weak are meat; the strong do eat.





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this was actually written in response to the Stony Loves Steve 2018 exchange, but shit happened and I had to withdraw from the exchange. I actually did finish the fic, so I decided to post it anyway.
> 
> This is kind of mish-mash of both long prompts and one of the short prompts from dreamkist:
> 
> 1\. Disillusioned with the world, Steve goes a little darksided. He becomes more ruthless and reckless. Tony notices and Steve tries to convince him that what he's doing is right.
> 
> 2\. A happy AU (no powers is ok). Steve meets Tony one summer and is utterly charmed by the snarky hurricane that this man is. The tragedy is Tony's lack of awareness of how amazing he is. Steve tries to show him.
> 
> 3\. Tearing the uniform star off.
> 
> Thank you to [FestiveFerret](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FestiveFerret) for betaing this, and [rebelmeg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelmeg) and [roseandthorns28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseandthorns28) for cheerreading! I wouldn't have been able to finish this without you!
> 
> Please let me know if there are any warnings missing, but I'm pretty sure I got them all!
> 
> P.S. the last line from the summary comes from a Japanese proverb and Cloud Atlas.

In his defence, Steve is momentarily stunned by the giant, flashing billboard for some store called _Forever 21_ , when he abruptly crashes into someone, knocking them to the ground. He winces – it’s been almost two years since Project Rebirth ( _give or take seventy odd years_ , he thinks wryly), but he still hasn’t quite gotten used to how big he is or how much he can push back. And proof of that is lying on the ground in front of him, giving him one hell of a disgruntled look, behind what look to be _purple_ sunglasses.

“Excuse _you_ ,” the man bites out.

Before Steve can reach down and help him, the man is already pushing himself to his feet and swiping at the pant legs of his (clearly expensive, but by Steve’s standards, _everything_ is expensive now) suit.

“You know, people usually say ‘sorry’ when they knock you down,” the man grumbles, because Steve is just staring at him dumbly.

Steve blinks, and the moment is broken. “I-I’m so sorry, sir,” he babbles.

The man gives him a withering look (he imagines he doesn’t quite cut an apologetic figure, just standing there, with his feet stuck to the ground and his hands stuck to his sides). “Yeah, I can see that.”

Steve has difficulty focusing on the man’s face or voice, the lights around him too bright, the yellow paint on the taxis too sharp, the honking too loud (everything is just _more_ now). When he’s able to centre on the man’s face, the man’s face is softer, concerned, and that makes him feel all-the-more worse for knocking him down.

“Hey, buddy, you okay?” The man takes a step forward, waving a hand in front of Steve’s face to get his attention.

Steve clears his throat. “Yeah, I’m good. I’m sorry for knocking you down.”

The man waves him off. “Don’t worry about it.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “You seemed pretty angry before.”

The man shrugs. “I’m a very complicated person.”

Steve is struck by the urge to laugh (he hasn’t laughed since Bucky was alive and he has to shove down the bile that rises in his throat). “I can see that.”

“You look like you could use a pick-me-up. Unfortunately, I’ve been told it’s too early for a good scotch, but coffee sound good to you?”

Steve blinks. “I don’t even know your name,” he says, lamely.

“It’s Tony. Do you want coffee or not?”

Steve thinks about the briefing at SHIELD Headquarters he’s supposed to be attending (they get really antsy when they think they’ve lost Captain America; he supposes it’s a fair concern, considering he was trapped in ice for the better part of seventy years) but ultimately determines that coffee is a much more enticing prospect.

Steve nods, quickly, before the nerve escapes him. “Yeah, I’d love to go for some coffee.”

Tony beams up at him and slips off his sunglasses, tucking them into the lapel of his suit, revealing dark, lined, brown eyes ( _striking_ , Steve thinks absent-mindedly). “Wonderful. I know this great café. In fact, I was just there.”

Steve furrows his brow. “You were just there, and you want _more_ coffee?” he asks, confused.

“Well, yeah,” Tony says, slowly. “It’s _coffee_.”

Clearly, there is something that Steve is missing here, but then again, Steve misses a lot of things nowadays (and that is absolutely _not_ bitter).

“So, you coming or what?”

Steve grins at the impatience in Tony’s voice (he’s suddenly reminded of Peggy and her dark-lashed eyes, and he shoves it down immediately – there’s no point in lingering over ghosts). “I’d love to go.”

* * *

Steve’s coffee doesn’t taste like water, and the scalding milk burns his tongue. Opposite him, Tony gulps down his own coffee and actually hums, completely content, his eyes falling shut.

Frankly, it’s adorable.

“So, man-who-was-not-looking-where-he-was-going, what had you so stumped in the middle of Times Square that you stopped in the middle of the street?”

Steve blinks. He wasn’t expecting the blunt question, and it takes him a minute to recover.

“Oh, I-uh-I thought I saw something weird,” Steve purposefully lowers his voice into something sheepish, hoping it’s enough to throw Tony off his scent.

Tony narrows his eyes. “Like what?” he demands.

Steve swallows. “Oh, just-just…”

_Shit._

No wonder Agent Romanoff says he’s very bad at undercover missions.

Tony narrows his eyes, leaning forwards. “Are you high?”

Steve looks around, confused. “High on top of what?”

Tony blinks. “Drugs?” he says, slowly.

“ _Drugs_?” Steve’s voice goes high in pitch. “I’m not on _drugs_!”

Tony eyes him, suspiciously. Steve would be charmed, if he wasn’t already offended.

“You sure? You seem pretty out of it,” Tony says, lightly.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m on drugs,” Steve retorts. “Look, I’m really sorry I ran into you, and I appreciate the coffee, but if you just brought me here so you could insult me-”

“Woah, slow down there, Angry Bird,” Tony interjects. “Self-absorbed much? I just wanted coffee.”

“You could’ve gotten that without me,” Steve says, pointedly.

“Yeah, but you looked so pathetic standing there, I thought I should throw you a bone.”

“I am _not_ a dog,” Steve hisses. “And I’m not pathetic.”

He is nothing to be pitied. He doesn’t _want_ to be pitied.

“You were a little pathetic,” Tony corrects. Steve opens his mouth to argue, but Tony continues, completely ignoring him. “But it’s okay. Everyone’s a little pathetic. And I mean, if you’re offended at being pathetic, then don’t you think you’re being a little mean to all those people who are pathetic on a daily basis?”

Steve pauses. “That doesn’t even make any sense,” he protests.

Tony’s brow furrows. “Are you sure?” he muses out loud. “It made sense in my head.”

Tony’s lower lip is slightly jutted out, and it looks like he’s pouting; Steve has the sudden urge to thumb the little dip in the middle.

“So, Steve Rogers. Where are you from?”

Steve jerks in his seat.

_Shit._

“Uh, from everywhere,” he hedges.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “What are you, a nomad or something?”

“Or something.”

Tony gives him a frustrated look. “Is someone paying you to troll me?”

Steve frowns. “What’s trolling?”

Tony scowls. “Now, I _know_ you’re trolling me.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

“I have _no_ idea what you’re talking about,” Steve retorts.

Tony takes a deep breath, as if to calm himself down before he does something reckless like throw his coffee in Steve’s face.

Tony’s smile comes like honey. “Let’s try this again: where are you from, Steve?” He crosses his hands in front of him, on the table, and props his chin on his upturned palms. “Or did you randomly pop into existence somewhere?” He mocks.

Steve grits his teeth. “Brooklyn,” he bites out.

Sarah Rogers apparently didn’t teach him so well, or maybe he just didn’t pay that much attention.

“See,” Tony lowers his voice, sweetly (clearly, he is patronising Steve). “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

Steve bites down on his lip, just short of breaking the skin and drawing blood (he’s pretty sure that accelerated healing is just as abnormal in 2010 as it was in 1945).

Tony laughs, suddenly. It’s warm and rich, like hot chocolate, and it makes the lines in Steve’s face soften.

“Wow, you really want to punch me now, don’t you?” he asks, amused.

Steve shakes his head, immediately. “I don’t want to _punch_ you,” he insists.

It comes off flat.

However, since coming out alive on the other end of Project Rebirth, Steve has been very much aware of just how much damage he can do – he has no interest in being more of a predator than he already is.

And Tony is just so much smaller than him ( _but_ _bigger in life_ , he can’t help but think).

Tony keeps grinning and clearly, he doesn’t believe him. “It’s okay. I tend to ask for it. Hell, I’d punch myself if I could.”

That, on the other hand, rings true.

Steve, despite his frustration, finds himself charmed and somewhat alarmed (why would Tony want to punch himself?)

“You don’t quit, do you?” Steve questions, fondly.

Tony frowns. “Quit what?”

“Anything. You don’t quit anything.”

Tony shrugs, nonchalantly, but the lines around his eyes are sharper than ever. “No one ever got anywhere by quitting.”

_I can do this all day._

Steve hides a smile by taking another sip of his coffee (he’s still trying to figure out how he paid _three_ dollars for this coffee – no longer rationed and _twenty_ times what he used to pay – and he somehow still has plenty more of where that came from in the bank).

“So, Tony,” Steve clears his throat. “What is it that you do?”

If not for the serum, he wouldn’t have caught the slight tensing of Tony’s shoulders.

“I’m an engineer,” Tony replies, lightly. He stares at Steve for a moment, eyes sharp, clearly expecting some sort of reaction from Steve, which he fails in. “What about you?” he asks, after Steve doesn’t respond in the way he clearly wanted him to.

Tony leans forward, close enough that Steve can see the salt and pepper in his hairline in detail now. He wonders if he could get that precise shade of grey onto paper – it’s an intriguing idea, and his eidetic memory ensures that he wouldn’t even have to see Tony again to manage it.

But he wants to. God, he wants to.

“An artist,” Steve replies, promptly, quoting the SHIELD-issued backstory.

He thinks of an empty sketchbook lying in his loft (he hasn’t drawn since Bucky fell off a train). It feels like such a lie.

But there are just some things that he’s just not ready to face.

Tony’s lips twitch. “An artist in New York. You’re practically a statistic.”

“A statistic of what?”

Tony looks briefly stumped, as if he wasn’t expecting that question. “There are a lot of artists in New York,” he says, slowly, as if he were speaking to a child. “All you’re missing is the hipster glasses and suspenders.”

“People still wear suspenders?”

Steve had been slightly put-out when Agent Romanoff had told him he’d stick out like a sore thumb.

Tony snorts. “Only when they’re trying to make some sort of point.”

Steve is missing something here again (he always feels like he needs a dictionary to translate simple, five-word sentences now), but he presses on. He doesn’t know why, but he wants to stay here, in this café, and continue chatting with Tony. If he steps out those doors, he’s back in an unfamiliar world with unfamiliar people and ghosts dragging behind him. Tony has insulted him, frustrated him, made fun of him, but he’s still the most intriguing person that Steve’s met since he came out of the ice. He doesn’t know what that says about him, but he _does_ know that he doesn’t want to leave this place and let Tony become another face in the crowd he’ll never see again.

God, he’s pathetic.

“You okay, Angry Bird?”

Tony’s voice brings him out of a haze, and he looks up with a noise of confusion. He blinks, owlishly, registering what Tony called him.

“Why do you keep calling me a bird?” Steve queries.

Tony blinks. “I called you Angry Bird. You know, like the game?”

“What game?”

Tony sighs and pulls out a sleek, strip of metal from his suit pocket. Steve recognises it as a StarkPhone (he hasn’t opened that file that Director Fury gave him on Howard’s son; he doesn’t even know his name, and he doesn’t want to – he’s worse than a ghost; he’s proof that everyone forged ahead without him). The screen lights up when Tony presses a button at the top and he swipes once, bringing something bright and colourful on the screen, before handing it to Steve.

“There, Angry Birds,” Tony explains. “See, you pull the slingshot and aim the bird at the pigs.”

“That’s…” Steve peers down at the screen. “That’s pretty violent,” he comments.

Tony shrugs. “It sells pretty well, but I guess bird-on-pig violence is not for everyone.” He gives Steve a cocky look that warms Steve from the inside.

“Those birds are very vicious-looking.” Steve looks at Tony. “Is that what you think I am?”

Tony’s lips twitch. “I was joking, but clearly I’ve offended you. I should probably add that to the list.”

“The list?” Steve cocks his head.

“The list of the reasons why you don’t like me,” Tony explains.

His face is devoid of any emotion; he believes what he’s saying.

A pang of something unpleasant hits him right in the gut.

“I don’t _dislike_ you,” Steve protests, his forehead puckering.

What has he said to make Tony think that?

In fact, the opposite is quite true. He hasn’t quite been able to take his eyes off Tony’s brandy-brown eyes, the perfect lines of his beard, his broad shoulders in a suit that clings to him. He’s small-made; Steve could wrap his arms and legs around him to hide him from the world, if Tony wanted it.

Something stirs inside him.

_Want._

Lord, it’s like Peggy all over again.

Tony squints. “Are you sure about that?” he asks, suspiciously.

Tony taps his fingers once-then-twice on his chest, against something metallic, because Steve hears the clink ( _a necklace, maybe_ , he reasons), before dropping them to the table. Steve can see the callouses that stain his fingertips, and he wants to reach out and see if they are as rough to the touch as he imagines. He wants to wipe the lines from the corners of his eyes.

“I don’t dislike you,” Steve says, firmly.

Tony beams. “Well, I’ll take your word for it.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t do this very often,” Steve confesses, shamefaced.

Tony leans in. “Neither do I,” he whispers, conspiratorially, regret and humour equal in his gaze.

Steve finds that hard to believe. He voices such a thought to Tony.

All Tony does is shrug nonchalantly, his smile somewhat lacklustre. “Believe it or not, being an engineer doesn’t give me much free time.”

Tony’s voice is somewhere between bitter and resigned, and it ties a knot in Steve’s stomach.

“I know the feeling,” Steve replies, dryly.

“Yeah, I can imagine that artists get pretty busy.”

Not for the first time since they sat down at this table, Steve feels guilty for lying so fundamentally about himself. Here Tony’s being genuine, and Steve’s leading him on with some cock-and-bull story about being a struggling artist.

“Yeah, we do,” Steve murmurs. He clears his throat. “So, what kind of engineering do you do?”

“Mainly mechanical,” Tony answers. “Some robotics as well.”

“Robotics, like Helen O’Loy?”

Steve remembers thumbing through the pages of the worn-out copy of _Astounding Science Fiction_ that belonged to Bucky.

He wonders if he’s the Helen of his story – is he so much more than what Erskine intended him to be, or has he toed the line perfectly?

Tony frowns, thoughtfully. “That was some short story back in the Thirties, right? The one with the housemaid robot that develops emotions?”

Steve nods, surprised and gladdened that Tony knows what he’s talking about – maybe he’s not the relic he thinks he is.

“Do you like that sort of thing, Steve? Science fiction?” Tony runs a lean finger around the rim of his coffee cup, before looking up at him, completely artlessly.

Steve shrugs. “My friend used to-” he falls short of finishing the sentence. He clears his throat, his heart in the midst of a rapid thump. “My friend, Buck-James, he liked that sort of thing.”

_“Where are we going?”_

_“The future.”_

“But you don’t?” Tony finishes for him, amused and arching a sly, sculpted brow.

“I don’t know much about it,” Steve replies, honestly.

The corner of Tony’s mouth rises up. “Most of the science fiction featuring robots is seriously wrong, anyway. You’re better off without it.”

“So, I shouldn’t develop a keen understanding of robotic fiction?” Steve teases.

Tony grins bright. “Oh, you most definitely should,” he teases. He does something brave and reaches across the table, bumping Steve’s fingers with his own (it sends a wave of warmth- _heat_ hurtling through Steve, and for the first time since they thawed him out, he feels like he’s out of the ice). “But I should probably be in charge of your education.” He offers, boldly.

Steve hopes his shock, his _hope_ isn’t transparent.

He squirms in his seat.

“Uh, does that-” he stammers. “Does that mean that this-do you want to-” He stops and takes a deep breath. His hands are trembling slightly. “Does that mean this isn’t a one-time thing?”

Tony rubs a hand across his goatee; it’s an adorably nervous gesture. “If you don’t want it to be.”

“I don’t want it to be,” Steve says, quietly.

“Then it won’t be.”

* * *

“Are you _absolutely_ sure you were a virgin?” Tony pants out, pressing his palm against his damp forehead, squirming in the sheets.

Steve chuckles, turning onto his side. His feet are still tingling; his skin is slick with sweat, and he’s pleasantly flushed. He stretches out his arm across the pillow so that Tony can curl against his side.

“I was,” Steve murmurs, pressing his mouth against Tony’s hairline.

Tony pushes himself up onto his elbows, so he can look at Steve. Steve deliberately doesn’t make a comment about his height (or lack thereof), only because the last time he did, Tony walked around in six-inch heels for the better part of three days just to prove a point (they got side-tracked frequently, and Steve found himself more often than not on his knees in front of Tony, so he’s pretty sure that he’s paid his debt to society).

“Not even a woman?” Tony asks, dubiously, like he doesn’t think a virgin could make his eyes roll back in his head.

Steve shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Are you hustling me? Is that what this is?”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “I have no idea what that means, but I’m still gonna say no.”

“Well, bang-up job,” Tony murmurs, groping at Steve’s pecs. “And I have the sudden urge to rub it in to the rest of humankind.” 

Steve smiles. “What are you doing, Tony?”

“Your pecs are like pillows,” Tony explains. “They’re very comfortable.”

Steve starts laughing. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Tony hums happily as he explores Steve’s muscles, but his scrutiny is cut short when Steve wraps his arms around him. He pouts up at Steve, who beams down at him, softer, more content than he has ever been since they pulled him from the ice. He strokes his hand down Tony’s side, and his lips twitch when Tony shudders, simultaneously leaning in and cringing away from the touch.

“Thank you for inviting me to coffee,” Steve says, quietly.

Tony sighs. “Steve, honey, that was months ago, and you’ve already told me that like a dozen times.”

His tone is almost long-suffering, but the way that Tony curls into him, like he’s touch-starved, tells Steve there is no genuine reproach behind it.

“I don’t care,” Steve murmurs. “That day… _all_ those days…” He trails off and shakes his head. “Thank you.”

“You can repay me with more sex,” Tony offers. He looks down between his legs. “Once I can get it up again, of course.”

Steve chances a look between his own legs and finds himself raring to go already. Tony’s attention is immediately diverted by the sight, and he raises a sly eyebrow at Steve, who blushes.

“Well, well, well.” Tony waggles his eyebrows. “Look who most certainly does not have the same problem.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Cute.”

Tony huffs. “You know, if you can’t appreciate my humour, I may just leave you to deal with _that_ by yourself.”

Now, it’s Steve’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

He leans down and deliberately fists his cock, slowly. Tony’s eyes wander down, and he runs his tongue over his lower lip, absentmindedly, brown eyes focused on Steve’s handiwork.

“Like what you see?” Steve teases.

“Oh, there’s no way you were a virgin,” Tony complains.

Nevertheless, he leans down and licks a stripe up the length of Steve’s cock. Steve groans and arches his back when Tony’s mouth sucks him in. His fingers thread into Tony’s thick, dark hair, encouragingly, and he mumbles something unintelligible-yet-affectionate. Tony’s hands brace against Steve’s knees, as he awkwardly crawls down the bed and turns around so that he’s facing Steve’s cock.

“You don’t-” Tony dips his tongue against Steve’s perineum, and Steve blacks out a little. “You don’t need to do this,” he gasps out.

Steve’s cock slips out of Tony’s mouth with a wet, obscene pop, and Steve looks down to see Tony giving him a withering look.

“Are you enjoying it?” Tony demands.

“Of course,” Steve insists.

“Then, what the hell are you whining about?” Tony asks, incredulously.

“I just don’t want to you think that I’m taking advantage of you,” Steve explains, shyly.

Tony’s answering look is rueful and amused. “It’s cute that you think _you’re_ taking advantage of _me_.”

Steve wants to kiss all the self-flagellation off Tony’s handsome face, which he does, happily. He leans down, first kissing him slowly and then harder, until Tony is moaning, wrapping a hand around Steve’s wrist. Steve can taste his own pre-come, but it doesn’t disgust him as he thought it would. Steve reaches down, between Tony’s legs, and palms his half-hard cock, until Tony turns fully erect. Tony makes a sound of frustration and pulls away.

“You are evil,” Tony growls.

Steve grins, wickedly. “You love it.”

Tony makes a face. “I do,” he mutters.

Steve manages to span Tony’s hips with his hands, lifting him onto his lap, so that his cock slides against the inside of Tony’s thighs.

“Fuck,” Tony hisses and grinds down.

“Can you come like that?” Steve asks, curiously.

“Shit,” Tony whines, dropping his head down onto Steve’s chest. “You can’t talk like that.”

Steve raises an eyebrow, amused. “Oh? Why is that?”

“Because,” Tony says, simply, rolling his hips forward and making Steve choke out a moan, “then, I’ll come.”

“That’s a bad thing?” Steve asks, roughly, running a hand up Tony’s spine and then back down so he can palm at Tony’s arse.

“Maybe not for you, you sexaholic. But some of our libidos aren’t as fast-acting as yours,” Tony chuckles, splaying his hands across Steve’s abdomen.

Steve sits upright and wraps his arms around Tony, pulling him close. He thumbs the dip between Tony’s shoulder blades. He rocks his hips forward and swallows Tony’s moan in a slow, lazy press of his mouth. Tony’s nails dig into his back, and Steve’s never been gladder for his accelerated healing because he knows that Tony would leave marks if he could.

It doesn’t take much for Steve and Tony to come. Tony jerks, helplessly, his eyes blown wide, and he bows his back, shouting, as his orgasm hurtles right through him. Steve feels his stomach turn slick, and he tightens his grip on Tony, thrusting forwards and dragging Tony’s hips back against him. The scrape of Steve’s cock against Tony’s thighs is too much, and he comes, hot and wet against Tony, with a rough groan. He sinks back against the pillow, and moments later, Tony is settling on top of him, resting his head on Steve’s bicep, with their legs entwined.

Steve presses a quick kiss to Tony’s head. “Still think I’m evil?” he teases.

“I think I want ice cream,” Tony says suddenly, somehow finding the strength in him to extract himself from Steve’s hold. “And I think I want to eat it off your abs.” On his way out the door, he waggles his eyebrows. “But you may want to wash up first. If we’re being hygienic.”

Steve looks down at his still-damp abdomen and sighs.

* * *

Steve is hooking up the sixth punching bag in a row when Director Fury strolls into the gym, carrying a set of files under his arm.

“Director Fury.” He nods in acknowledgment.

“Trouble sleeping?” Fury asks him.

Steve shrugs and hits the bag. “I slept for seventy years, sir. I think I've had my fill.”

“Then you should be out, celebrating,” Fury offers. “Seeing the world.”

Steve thinks of Tony, sleeping, sated and content, in bed. His nightmares shouldn’t touch Tony – Tony is the only thing that keeps him going after the ice.

Steve stops punching and walks over to the bench, unwrapping his hands and sinking down.

“When I went under, the world was at war. When I woke up, they say we won. They didn't say what we lost,” he mutters.

“We've made some mistakes along the way,” Fury concedes. “Some very recently.”

Steve looks up, his shoulders tensing. “You here with a mission, sir?”

He doesn’t go out on many missions, so that SHIELD can keep the knowledge that Captain America is alive and safe out of the papers. It works in his favour; this way, he doesn’t need to lie to Tony as much as he already has. But for Fury to be here, requesting his help, it must be serious.

Fury nods. “I am.”

Steve’s mouth twists. “Trying to get me back in the world?”

“Trying to save it,” Fury corrects, handing Steve a file.

He opens it to find a picture of the Tesseract, the Red Skull’s crowning jewel, and he immediately feels sick to his stomach.

“HYDRA’s secret weapon,” Steve mutters.

“Howard Stark fished that out of the ocean when he was looking for you. He thought what we think, the Tesseract could be the key to unlimited sustainable energy. That's something the world sorely needs.”

Steve frowns. He’s not sure just how amenable he is to the idea of the Tesseract being used for anything, but he lets it slide for now.

“Who took it from you?” he asks.

“He's called Loki. He's not from around here,” Fury hedges. “There's a lot we'll have to bring you up to speed on if you're in. The world has gotten even stranger than you already know.”

Steve snorts. “At this point, I doubt anything would surprise me.”

“Ten bucks says you're wrong. There's a debriefing package waiting for you back at your apartment.”

Steve turns and picks up a punching bag, hoisting it over his shoulder, and starts walking out of the gym. He doesn’t stop when he hears Fury’s voice.

“Is there anything you can tell us about the Tesseract that we ought to know now?”

Steve grits his teeth. He remembers that bright blue flash and Bucky screaming as he falls (as Steve _let_ him fall).

“You should have left it in the ocean.”

* * *

The battle with Loki in Stuttgart is tiresome and long, and Thor’s meddling doesn’t help matters. Steve actually has a crick in his neck when he’s on the flight back to SHIELD headquarters. He rolls his shoulders and leans his head back against the inside of the Quinjet. There were times during the fight with Loki and Thor that he honestly thought that he would lose. The brothers are easily the hardest opponents he has ever fought. Loki was strong, skilled and clever, which made him a terrible threat. But with Agent Romanoff in the Quinjet above, the two of them managed to apprehend Loki before too much damage was done to Stuttgart.

Thor almost ruined everything by bursting into the Quinjet and seizing Loki. But Steve jumped right after them and managed to talk Thor down, before he set Loki free or took him back to Asgard (which was actually in _space_ ). Of course, Thor had given him a good swing first with Mjölnir, which Steve had feared would shatter his shield. He’s now, more than ever, grateful that Howard had managed to find enough vibranium for him to make that shield.

It had been a close call.

And Steve felt like prey all over again.

“We’re approaching the helicarrier, Captain,” Agent Romanoff informs him from the cockpit.

Steve’s eyes snap open, and he looks forward, seeing the large airship loom through the cockpit window. Steve waits patiently while SHIELD agents take Loki away to whatever prison cell Director Fury created for an Asgardian. Thor watches dutifully to ensure that Loki was treated with respect (Steve’s not one for torture, but the eighty people Loki killed in two days deserve some justice).

Steve makes his way to the briefing room.

He wants to run away when he sees Tony sitting there.

Because all he has to do is look at his face once to know that Tony has learned the truth.

There’s a bitter twist to his mouth, and Steve feels like vomiting.

“So, artist, huh?”


	2. ii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: angst, smut, anxiety attacks, post-traumatic stress disorder, non-consensual injecting of a sedative, nuclear bomb attack.

“Iridium, what did they need the iridium for?” Banner queries out loud.

“It’s a stabilising agent,” Tony pipes up, as he walks in with Coulson, after asking the agent if he could take a look at the helicarrier engines (he claimed that he had been curious for a while now, but Steve knew it was just to get out of being in the same room as him). He pats Coulson on the arm, who looks sheepishly at the others. “I’ll fly you there. Keep love alive.” He turns back to the others. “Means the portal won't collapse on itself, like it did at SHIELD.”

Steve now knows that Tony, _his_ Tony, is actually Tony _Stark_. He doesn’t want to dig too deep into the fact that he’s in a committed relationship – or at least he hopes he’s still in one – with his dead friend’s son who he’d been avoiding, but as ridiculous and distressing as it is, he’s glad he’s not the only who’s been keeping secrets.

Tony strides past Thor. “Holy shit, Point Break, are those really your arms?” he demands, slightly awed.

Thor merely looks amused and a little confused, although Steve is inwardly anxious with jealousy and hurt because Tony’s eyes pass over him like he’s not even there.

“Also, it means the portal can open as wide, and stay open as long, as Loki wants.” Tony stops in front of Fury’s mission control. “Uh, raise the mid-mast, ship the top sails. That man is playing GALAGA!”

_What’s Galaga?_

Steve is momentarily alarmed and looks at the man Tony was pointing dramatically at, only to see him caught like a deer in headlights with a strange game playing in the background. He rolls his eyes, because, for once, he wishes that Tony would take something seriously – eighty people have died, and Tony is making jokes.

“Thought we wouldn't notice. But we did,” Tony sighs, turning his attention back to the screen. He covers one of his eyes and turns from side to side. “How does Fury do this?” he demands.

Agent Hill gives him a withering, unimpressed look (Steve bites back a scowl – he knows that Tony can be exasperating sometimes, but he has a good heart, he’s as sharp as a whip, and he always means well).

“He turns.”

Tony looks at the monitors once more, turning on his feet every which way. “Well, that sounds exhausting. The rest of the raw materials, Agent Barton can get his hands on pretty easily.” He taps the screen in front of him, reading whatever he can see intently. “Only major component he still needs is a power source. A high energy density, something to kick start the cube.” He turns to face all of them, expectantly (but not Steve; he acts like Steve is a stranger to him).

“When did you become an expert in thermonuclear astrophysics?” Agent Hill asks him, scornfully.

“Last night,” Tony answers her, belligerently. He looks at the rest. But for Doctor Banner, they are bewildered. “The packet, Selvig's notes, the extraction theory papers.” His eyes light up. “Am I the only one who did the reading?” he asks, gleefully.

Steve sighs. “Does Loki need any particular kind of power source?” he asks.

“He’s got to heat the cube to a hundred-and-twenty-million Kelvin just to break through the Coulomb barrier,” Banner answers for Tony, about which the latter is surprisingly relieved.

“Unless, Selvig has figured out how to stabilise the quantum tunnelling effect,” Tony offers, walking around the table.

Banner raises an eyebrow. “Well, if he could do that, he could achieve heavy ion fusion at any reactor on the planet,” he says, pointedly.

Tony smiles, lazy and content (it makes Steve want to start screaming at him like a fishwife – _how can he be so happy when Steve feels like his life is falling apart all over again?_ ). “Finally, someone who speaks English.”

Steve snorts. “Is that what just happened?” he says, quietly, and the resentment rings true.

He doesn’t know if Tony acknowledges what he said at all, because he keeps his eyes determinedly forwards.

“It's good to meet you, Dr Banner. Your work on anti-electron collisions is unparalleled. And I'm a huge fan of the way you lose control and turn into an enormous green rage monster,” Tony says, quickly.

There is a pause.

Steve resists the urge to groan.

“Thanks,” Banner replies, morosely.

“Dr Banner is only here to track the cube,” Fury explains as he walks into the briefing room. “I was hoping you might join him.” He says, pointedly.

“I’d start with that stick of his. It might be magical, but it works an awful lot like a HYDRA weapon,” Steve offers.

He bites back the echo of Bucky being hit with an ice-blue light and hurtling out of a train.

“I don’t know about that, but it is powered by the cube,” Fury agrees. “And I’d like to know how Loki used it to turn two of the sharpest men I know into his personal flying monkeys.”

Thor steps forward, his arms crossed over his chest, and his face is adorably confused. “Monkeys? I do not understand.”

“I do!” Steve feels the need to insert, proudly. “I-I understood that reference.”

He looks behind him, only to find Tony rolling his eyes. The gesture is so normal, so characteristic of Tony, that it makes Steve ache inside. It reminds him of dates on Steve’s couch, watching a veritable smorgasbord of movies and TV shows just so Steve could start to get these references. It reminds him of Tony ignoring whatever is happening on the screen, his eyes focused on Steve, just so he could catch his reaction when the epic moment he was awaiting finally came around. It reminds him of Tony falling asleep in the middle of the movie and Steve nudging his head into his lap, so he could run his hands through Tony’s hair and continue watching, despite Tony’s numerous complaints.

He _needs_ to fix this.

“Shall we play, Doctor?” Tony looks at Banner, who nods.

“Let's play some.”

Steve watches as Banner and Tony walk out of the briefing room, continuing their conversation about electrostatic potential energy and nuclear fusion.

Tony doesn’t look back at all.

* * *

They end up getting into a raging argument in front of everyone and only later do they realise that it’s Loki’s sceptre at work.

It starts off when Steve admonishes Tony for shocking Bruce and Tony makes a crack about Steve’s Captain America costume, and Bruce asks them if they know each other.

“Something like that,” Tony says, bitterly.

“I’m not the only one who lied about who I was, Tony,” Steve reminds him, sharply, suddenly fed up with Tony looking at him like he’s some sort of supervillain.

“The only thing I didn’t tell you was my last name, Steve,” Tony retorts. “You lied about _everything_. Hell, the only thing about yourself that’s the truth is your _name_.”

“I wasn’t allowed to,” Steve said, defensively. “SHIELD made it very clear that no one was supposed to know that I was alive, Tony. I wanted to tell you the truth; I really did. But I didn’t know how to bring it up after we’d started dating. It’s not a good excuse; I’m not asking you to let me off the hook, but you’re not innocent here either.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “You do realise that it’s not an apology if you use the word ‘but’, right?” he points out just to get a rise out of Steve.

Steve grits his teeth and resists the urge to claw at his hair. He presses on. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Tony crosses his arms over his chest. “Who says you hurt me?” he challenges, because God forbid Tony Stark ever admit to weakness.

“Don’t,” Steve warns, frustrated and perceptive. “Don’t make what we have together cheap. I _know_ how you feel about me, Tony. I know you love me, and I know you know I love you.”

“You’re a joke,” Tony bites out, scathingly. “If I’d known who you were-”

“You’d what?” Steve demands. “You’d have ignored me? You’d have kept walking that day in Times Square?”

The thought hurts him more than he realised it would. Tony is the _only_ thing that makes his time in the ice worthwhile, even with everything he’s lost. If he decides that Steve isn’t worth it, if he should’ve made a different decision that day in Times Square, Steve’s world will fall out from right beneath him.

“Yes,” Tony hisses.

He was right; it _hurts_.

“I don’t believe you,” Steve growls.

“Well, I’m telling you the truth.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Oh, so, only _Captain America_ ’s allowed the moral high ground. It must be so hard to see us from your pedestal,” Tony says, scornfully.

The way Tony says _Captain America_ , like it’s wrong (like _he’s_ wrong), makes Steve want to punch something, preferably a wall.

“You lied too, Tony. Don’t forget that,” Steve warns.

“I thought you knew who I was,” Tony retorts. “ _Everyone_ knows who I am, short bus. I’ve been in every tabloid, every newspaper, and every talk show. I thought you were just being a decent guy and not bringing up the fact that you were screwing a billionaire. Or at the very least, you were insecure enough that you didn’t want to acknowledge it.” He huffs.

Steve flinches. Not once, since he’s learnt who Tony is, what Tony does, has he ever been _insecure_. Tony throws that in his face like he never thought any better of him (that hurts more than anything).

“But _you_ , _you_ lied to me about _everything_. Everything that you did, everything you are, everything you were. Nothing you said to me was true. _Nothing_.” He shakes his head. “And you know what’s even worse? You did it for SHIELD, to affirm their crazy despotic control over everything and everyone. You didn’t even make the choice yourself.” There’s red covering his cheekbones now when he spits this out. “You’re just one of those wind-up monkeys where people twist the dial and make it dance. A toy, with no brain.”

Steve thinks it would’ve been more merciful if Tony had simply reached inside and pulled out his insides to bludgeon him with it.

 _Is that what I was to you_? Steve wants to ask. He wants to know if Tony was lying the whole time. Was he just some warm body (some _toy_ ) that Tony could take his pleasure in?

Had he been holding onto the wrong thing all this time?

Bucky always said he had one hell of a temper. It swells inside him like a black eye and suddenly he has to clench his fists, otherwise he’d wring Tony’s throat. 

“It’s called respecting the chain of command, Tony,” he barks. “What would _you_ know about that? You’re just some engineer that SHIELD brought in to consult, that’s _all_. You’re not special; you’re certainly not important. You know what? No _wonder_ I never realised that you were Howard’s kid.”

Tony looks like Steve has struck him. For a moment, Steve immediately regrets what he said; he wishes he could take it back, feeling like the worst person that has ever existed, until the anger comes back, hurtling like an indomitable tidal wave.

Tony’s jaw is clenched hard. “I knew this was a mistake,” he flings, shaking his head like he should’ve known this would happen ( _because Tony can’t have nice things_ – Steve remembers when Tony told him that, after they had made love, and he had looked so miserable, so browbeaten that Steve had kissed him to wipe the sadness from his eyes and hoped it would’ve been enough – clearly, it hadn’t been enough).

His voice is rough, like he’s barely holding himself back, and Steve wants to wrap his arms around Tony so badly, but he knows it ( _he_ ) won’t be welcome (it makes him wonder how Howard had turned out, if his son was so wrecked on the inside – but, is Steve any better?).

They don’t finish their argument and their relationship is still in the air, because the Helicarrier then bodily rocks with the force of an explosion. The glass shatters inwards and fire bursts from the air vents below them, and all of the room’s occupants are thrown to the floor. Steve has enough presence to grab Tony when they fall, though, such that it’s Steve’s back that hits the ground instead of Tony’s anything. When he raises his head, the room is filled with smoke and he can’t see hide nor hair of Fury, Romanoff, Thor, or Banner (and the latter is definitely the most frightening). He helps Tony to his feet, who stumbles a bit and who would’ve fallen, if it weren’t for Steve’s hand on his waist.

“The engine,” Tony grits out, clutching his hip where it’d hit the edge of a desk in all of the commotion. “They’ve taken out the engine.”

“What do we do?” Steve asks him, quickly.

This is no time for their drama.

Thor flies out towards the turbine, where the debris is lodged, and frees it, under strict instructions from Tony over the comm units. Steve covers him until the turbines are spinning freely, and Thor races away to face off against the Hulk, who is rampaging across the inner levels of the Helicarrier, having already killed two-dozen agents. When Steve returns to the laboratory, his lungs in his throat the whole way, the floor is littered with three dead (at least he thinks they’re dead; he _hopes_ they’re dead) agents and Tony is sitting on one of the still-standing tables, rifle in his laps.

“Did you-did you do this?” Steve has to ask, torn between awe and horror.

Tony shrugs. “Made my first gun when I was six years old. Shooting them is easy.”

He ignores the dead bodies as he brushes past Steve, out of the laboratory.

* * *

Loki escapes. Thor and Banner are lost. Agent Coulson dies (Tony is distraught, but Steve doesn’t know why; clearly, there is a lot about Tony that he doesn’t know). But Tony is still there, and, right now, that’s enough for him to push on and get this done. Tony stays at SHIELD (despite a number of protests and firm insistence that _he is not a damsel, goddamnit_ , especially after he figures out that Loki has set up shop in _his_ tower) and Steve, Natasha and Agent Barton make their way to New York, to Stark Tower. They’re too late to stop the portal from opening and they can do nothing but watch when hundreds- _no_ , thousands of monstrous-looking things swarm out of a wormhole in the sky and storm the city.

Steve tries his best, but the three, even with Thor appearing out of nowhere, and Banner rolling in on his motorcycle and transforming into the Hulk with a turn of his head, aren’t enough.

The Chitauri won’t stop.

Steve is in the middle of pummelling his shield into the skull of a Chitauri soldier (at least, he _thinks_ it’s a skull, but he’s no expert on alien anatomy), when he hears Tony’s urgent voice over the comm units. Agent Romanoff is pressed against his back, brawling with the Chitauri with a spear she stole off one of their corpses.

“You guys need to get out of there. _Now_.”

Steve pants, wiping dirty-grey blood off his cheeks. “Tony, what’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“There’s a nuke heading straight for you. You need to get the hell out of New York, now.”

Steve swallows hard. He’s seen pictures of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. He imagines New York as a similar wasteland, with bodies strewn across the wreckage. He feels the bile rise in his throat.

“All the more reason to stay,” Steve reasons.

“You’ll get blown to sky high,” Tony argues, desperately. “You _just_ got out of the ice, Steve. Don’t give up your second chance.”

Steve scowls. “To hell with my second chance. There are still civilians trapped here. I’m not leaving while I can still help someone get out.”

“For the love of-” Tony stops himself short, like he doesn't want to say something he’ll regret. His voice lowers. “Please, Steve, get out of there.”

Steve visibly _aches_ when he hears the plea in Tony’s voice. But he steels himself.

“I can’t leave,” Steve mutters. “I can’t leave them to that.”

“Steve,” Tony rasps. “Steve, please come back to SHIELD. You’ve done all you can.”

“It’s not enough,” Steve grits out. “I can do more. I know I can.”

He has to do more. He’s Captain America.

“And when the nuke fucking hits ground zero? What will you do then?” Tony snaps.

“Tony, I-”

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry I listened to Fury. I’m sorry I said those things to you in the Helicarrier. You’re not just some engineer. You are special. You’re nothing like Howard – you’re worth a hundred of him, of anyone I’ve ever known._

_I’m sorry I came out of the ice. Maybe you would’ve been better off._

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

“Steve, no, don’t you fucking dare,” Tony barks. He draws an audible breath. He lowers his voice, earnestly. “Come back, Steve. Come back to SHIELD. Come back to _me_. Don’t you dare die there.”

Steve ducks a blast from one of the Chitauri. He throws the shield, catching it as it swings back around after shattering an alien skull.

“I’m not leaving, Tony,” Steve says, firmly. “I can’t.”

“You stubborn idiot!” Tony shouts and there’s a vicious crack in the background. When his voice comes over the comm unit again, it’s strained, taut at the edges. “You said you loved me. If that’s true, _if that_ _means something to you_ , you’ll come back to SHIELD.”

Steve’s hands are shaking now, but he still manages to saw the Chitauri that lunges for him in half with his shield.

“I love you, Tony,” Steve swears. He’ll keep saying it if he has to, until Tony believes him. “I _love_ you, Tony.”

But he can’t leave.

“For fuck’s sake,” Tony snaps. “Romanoff, do it.”

Steve starts and turns around to ask Agent Romanoff what Tony is talking about, but instead he feels the prick of a needle in his neck, only to find a grim-looking Natasha on the other end, her striking red hair, streaked with dirt and alien blood.

After that, there is nothing.

* * *

When he wakes up, he’s in a SHIELD bedroom. It feels too much like when he woke from the ice and the panic clawing at his throat makes him jack-knife up in bed.

“Woah!”

Steve turns around, and Tony is on the edge of his seat, arm outstretched to press him back down.

“What-where am I?” he demands.

Tony grimaces. “You’re back on the Helicarrier.”

Steve blinks – that doesn’t make any sense. “I don’t understand. I was in New York. What happened?” he asks.

Tony’s shoulders slump. “The nuke hit New York,” he tells Steve, steadily. “New York is…” He takes a deep breath. “The nuke worked, Steve. The Chitauri are dead.”

“And New York?”

He knows it’s bad. He knows it in his bones.

“Gone,” Tony whispers. “For lack of a more accurate word.”

“Gone? But-”

_How could an entire city be gone?_

Steve slips off the bed, almost falling to the floor in a stumble. Tony makes to grab him by the shoulders, but Steve shrugs away. He manages to stagger to his feet, and he starts pacing.

“They just destroyed an entire city. How could they do that? There were still people there. We could’ve- _I_ could’ve gotten them out, gotten them to safety.” He takes a deep breath but it catches in his throat. “Why didn’t they give me more time? I could’ve saved them. I could’ve gotten them out. God, how could they just-just raze it to the _ground_? Oh, God. Oh, God. _Oh, God. Ohgodohgodohgod_.”

Fuck, breathing sure is hard. He can actually feel his throat closing up, his lungs aching with the effort. The breaths come in sharp, heavy pants that make him feel sick. Finally, his legs fail him, and his knees hit the ground. His arms wrap around his stomach and he wretches emptily.

_I failed. I failed. Fuck, I failed._

He doesn’t even realise that Tony is kneeling in front of him, until Tony curls a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him forward. Steve goes, boneless, his forehead falling onto Tony’s shoulder. He’s still heaving, but Tony just runs his fingers through his hair in a very specific rhythm: three strokes, each lasting five seconds, then a pause for another five seconds, and then again and again and again. The pattern is something he could set his watch by, grounding him, and he finally realises what’s going on, where he is, who he’s with, and calm starts to return, albeit slowly. But it doesn’t do anything to help the thick, cloying grief that’s heavy in his stomach like he’s had too much to eat, and now it hurts too much to even get up. His arms, which are hanging awkwardly by his side, wrap around Tony, holding onto him like he thinks he’ll fall away if he lets go.

He starts to shake.

“They just-” Steve mumbles, thickly. “They just bombed the whole city. There were still civilians there, and they just blew it to hell.”

Tony remains silent.

“I don’t-” Steve shakes his head. “Is this the world we live in now? I don’t-this doesn’t make any sense,” he says, roughly. He grimaces, self-deprecatingly. “Or maybe it does, and I’m just some dumb gorilla who thought he could make a difference.”

Tony’s arms tighten around him, and Steve feels warmth return (Steve only ever feels warm after the ice when he’s with Tony). “Don’t. Don’t say that. Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“Why not?” Steve asks, roughly. “Hell, you said it yourself. A toy with no brain.”

Fuck, Tony was right. Of course he was right.

“No, I was-I was just- _Fuck, Steve_ ,” Tony growls. “I was hurt and angry, and I just wanted you to feel a fraction of what I was feeling. So, I took it out on you, and I said all those things, but they _weren’t_ true. They weren’t, Steve.” Steve tries to shy away from Tony, but Tony grips him by the jaw and forces him to listen. “Steve, listen to me; I was _wrong_. I said terrible things, and I shouldn’t have said them. You are not a toy, and you are _not_ a gorilla. You did the best you could. Everyone knows that. _I know that._ ”

 _But I don’t_ , Steve finishes off, miserably, in his head.

“Everything I did, it was completely worthless in the end,” he says, dully.

“You saved a lot of people,” Tony says, quietly. “Some of the survivors – the ones you helped – are coming out of the woodwork now. Reporters are already on the scene: _fucking vultures,_ ” he mutters under his breath. He shakes his head. “But everyone who got out of New York today is because of you, Romanoff, and Barton. That’s something to indulge in, Steve.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. Instead, he kisses the sliver of skin peeking out of Tony’s shirt, where his neck meets his shoulder – Tony is warm and he scents a mix of cologne and engine grease, and it keeps him there, in that room with Tony, rather than allowing his mind to wander.

“Uh, Steve?”

Steve remains silent. His hand tightens around Tony’s hip, and his next kiss is firmer, more deliberate.

“Steve, you’ve just been through something seriously traumatic. Hell, you were just having a panic attack five minutes ago. I don’t think we should be-”

Steve worked out that the best way to shut Tony up was to kiss him until his eyes roll back in his head weeks ago, and he puts the knowledge to good use. The kiss is slow and steady and firm, such that Tony’s attention is sufficiently diverted.

Steve pulls back because he still needs to check – he won’t do anything that Tony doesn’t want him to.

Clearly, his face says enough, because Tony answers him before he can even ask the question.

“It’s not that I don’t want this,” Tony explains, quietly. “I just don’t want you to ignore what’s going on. I know, _shocker_ , me trying to be the sensible, emotionally stable one, but Steve-”

“I’m not,” Steve interjects. “I’m not ignoring what happened. I _know_ what happened.”

How can he? But it feels somewhat far-flung in his mind. He knows, logically, that New York is no more. He knows that there must be hundreds, if not thousands, dead. He knows that there’s still Loki to deal with.

He knows he should have done more.

“I can’t ignore it,” he rasps. “I just-I need-”

He doesn’t quite know how to finish the sentence, but Tony understands (Tony _always_ understands). Tony reaches upwards, patting Steve’s jaw with an upturned palm, fingers sliding into Steve’s dirt-streaked hair. He pulls him down, so that he can kiss him all over again.

“It’s okay, Steve, it’s okay,” Tony murmurs into his ear when they break apart.

Steve shifts onto his knees, splaying Tony out on the floor beneath him. He unhooks his belt, the unwieldy thing it is, and shoves it over to one side. Before he can even do anything more, Tony is sliding a clever hand into his uniform pants.

Tony stills. “You’re not wearing underwear?”

The frivolous question has Steve blushing. “It doesn’t really work with the uniform,” he tries to explain. “People would see the lines.”

Tony’s grin is slow and delighted. “You were worried about panty lines, weren’t you?”

Steve doesn’t want to encourage him but Tony’s teasing tone (the one that Steve thought he’d never hear again – Tony had been so _angry_ before) is enough to make him smile back, boyish and unencumbered.

“I was,” he admits.

He just needs to see Tony smile, and he does. He kisses Tony again, just as Tony wraps a hand around his cock and corkscrews upward. Steve groans into Tony’s mouth, and Tony strips him out of the Captain America uniform.

Now, he’s just Steve.

Steve gets Tony’s jeans and boxers off, haphazardly, and tugs on the hem of his shirt, ready to relieve Tony of the last piece of clothing he has on, when Tony’s hand stops him.

“Is-is something wrong?” Steve asks, roughly. He frowns. “Do you not want to do this?”

“No,” Tony shakes his head vigorously. “It’s not that at all. It’s just…” He sighs. “There’s something else I haven’t told you.”

Steve tenses. He knows it’s those daytime soap operas, which Tony makes him watch just to see his reactions at some of the god-awful things that happen on screen, that makes him think that Tony’s about to say something along the lines of _I’m actually married with three kids_ or _I’m actually an inanimate doll that came to life because I made a deal with the Devil._ But he logically knows that’s stupid (at least he hopes).

Tony stares at him for a moment, and then takes a deep breath. “I’ll let you make a decision for yourself,” he reasons, more to himself.

He pulls his shirt off, and Steve is staring at his bare, unblemished chest, as he always has, when they've had sex. But Tony palms the centre of his chest and pulls something viscous and shining from the centre, and now Steve is staring at a blue light coming out of a metal chamber right in the middle of Tony’s breastbone.

“What-” Steve can’t find words. “What is that?”

Tony purses his lips. “It’s called an arc reactor,” he replies, vaguely.

Steve frowns. “Like the thing that’s powering Stark Tower?”

_Was powering Stark Tower?_

Steve doesn’t know the state of his partner’s pride-and-joy now.

“Yes. It, uh, came from this thing in my chest.” Tony taps on his chest, once and then twice, a quirk he’s seen from Tony before, and suddenly it makes sense.

Steve clears his throat. “How-how did you end up with it in your chest?”

“Well, there’s always been like a giant one in the Malibu division of SI, but things happened with my ex-COO, and it was destroyed. But when I was in Afghanistan, when I was kidnapped, I was hit by one of my own weapons – _just desserts, huh?_ There was shrapnel in my chest. There was this neurosurgeon, he was a prisoner just like I was. He implanted an electromagnet into my chest, so the shrapnel wouldn’t reach my heart. I swapped the electromagnet for the arc reactor. So, now I have this.”

He tap his chest twice, once more, and Steve hears the clink-clink.

“And that thing you removed?” Steve glances at the syrupy, opaque mesh that’s pathetically lying on the floor.

“It’s nanotechnology. I developed it,” Tony tells him, quietly. “It basically rearranges pigment molecules, like what chameleons do, to make you look like whomever or whatever you program it to look like. I wear it in public, because I don’t want to have to deal with the inevitable questions of why I have a metal cylinder lodged in my chest.”

_And it’s definitely better when you don’t have a shining, ‘aim here to kill me’ light advertised to the public._

“Makes sense,” Steve admits. “But why didn’t you tell me?”

Tony swallows hard. “I wasn’t sure how you’d react. The arc reactor… isn’t exactly attractive, palatable.”

Steve stares down at the scarring, red and angry, that lines the reactor and leans down, pressing his lips to the rim. He drags his mouth around, feeling the distinction between cool metal and warm skin.

Tony fists a hand in Steve’s hair.

“Steve,” he breathes. “What are you doing?”

“Loving you,” Steve hums.

Steve kisses him gently, settling between Tony’s legs, as Tony stretches himself out on the ground.

“Steve, you don’t have to pretend,” Tony mutters, shifting awkwardly.

“I’m not _pretending_ anything,” Steve insists. He grinds forwards, and Tony bangs a fist on the ground, his jaw going taut. “You’re beautiful.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, a smile not quite there but playing on his mouth.

Steve flushes. “Well, you _are_!” he insists.

Just to prove his point, he leans down and scrapes his teeth over Tony’s hip, making him jolt upwards.

“Steve!”

“Tony, hush,”

Steve nuzzles across Tony’s pelvic bone until he’s mouthing at his cock. Tony’s hand returns to Steve’s hair and tugs.

“Steve, while I appreciate the sentiment, I only have like one of these in me, two at the most. Maybe we should skip to the second act?” Tony grits out.

Steve chuckles and presses one last kiss to the tip of Tony’s cock where it curves, flushed and weeping with pre-come, against his belly. Steve’s laugh cuts off abruptly when Tony reaches between them, shuffling his entire body downwards to make up for Steve’s more-than-average height, and palms Steve’s cock until he’s pretty much humping Tony’s hip, desperately.

“Fuck, Tony,” he growls.

“Oh, I got you to swear. That’s pretty cool,” Tony crows, delighted.

“Shut up,” Steve groans. “Do you have anything I can use for-” He trails off, motioning the rest with his fingers.

Tony makes a grab for his abandoned jeans and fishes out a small packet of lube from his back pocket.

Steve is busy rocking persistently against the dip between Tony’s thigh and pelvic bone (the first time he had done this, he had been so sure that Tony would think he was using him as some sort of sex doll and throw him out of the bed, but surprisingly Tony had been okay with it; in fact, he had welcomed it). But when he sees the packet of lube, he can’t help but screw his face up in bewilderment.

“Why-” Steve pants. “Why on Earth do you have lube on you?”

Tony shrugs and hefts his leg up onto Steve’s hips. “I always have lube. No point in overthinking it.”

Without much ceremony, Tony tears open the packet of lube and squeezes it onto his fingers, which he then rubs together. His hand slips between his legs and Steve doesn’t need to look at the way Tony’s face is set in concentration or his quiet murmurs of approval or the way his hips jerk for some contact to know that he is enjoying himself.

When Tony is sufficiently prepared, he pats Steve on the shoulders, motioning for Steve to roll over onto the floor so that Tony can get on top, which Steve does happily. Whatever lube is left on Tony’s fingers, he spreads over Steve’s cock as he fists him, deliberately, making Steve thump his heel on the floorboard hard enough to crack the wood.

Tony perches on Steve’s lap, while still palming Steve’s cock to keep him hard and right on the edge. He balances himself on his knees, arching upwards, so that he can press the head of Steve’s cock between his thighs, and presses down. Steve slips inside so easily, and it has Tony hitching in deep breaths, one of his hands gripping Steve’s hips.

Steve is staring. It almost doesn’t feel real, seeing Tony like this: beautiful, fierce, resolute. When he left for New York, he never thought he’d see it again.

Steve has never loved this man more.

Tony rides him, slow but deliberate, until Steve is gasping his name and coming inside him, gripping his hips like he’s holding onto him for dear life. Tony slumps on top of him after he fists his cock and comes with a rough groan on Steve’s stomach, weary and sated. He slots his nose into Steve’s neck and smiles when Steve starts to run his knuckles up the length of his spine.

The smile falls when Steve speaks.

“New York really is gone, isn’t it?” Steve says, roughly.

Tony swallows hard and props his chin on Steve’s breastbone. “I’m sorry, Steve. It is.”

“Brooklyn, too?” Steve’s voice breaks halfway through, thinking of that grotty walk-up he and Bucky shared before the war

Tony chews on his lower lip. “Pretty much all of New York is gone, Steve. So, yeah, Brooklyn, too. We’ve had reports that the radioactive fallout is spreading down to Boston.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. His grip around Tony turns to steel.

He can’t lose Tony too.


	3. iii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: character death (no one that anyone would miss, don't worry), suicide ideation, insecurities, depression symptoms, survivor's guilt, implied torture.

Clearly, Steve is cursed, because not six months after New York, there’s a terrorist named the Mandarin who attacks Tony, after Tony calls the monster out publicly (Steve had given Tony an earful, but he knew it wouldn’t do much good – Tony is spiralling; anyone can see that).

Steve has never hated being a part of SHIELD more, because by the time he gets there, there is a pile of wreckage where Tony’s house stood in Malibu, and Pepper has her arms wrapped around herself as the workers continue to pull debris from the water below.

He thinks they’re mocking him when they finally pronounce Tony dead.

But Tony isn’t dead.

Steve knows he isn’t dead.

If Tony were dead, Steve would know. He would’ve felt it. _Somehow_.

Ergo, Tony isn’t dead.

Instead, Steve focuses his efforts on hunting down the Mandarin like a dog (the piece of shit tried to _kill_ Tony). In the end, he’s completely useless (he always is). Natasha tracks the Mandarin (not the British actor they’d found canoodling with a bunch of hired women) to an impounded damaged oil tanker. When Steve, Natasha and Clint arrive (Bruce had thought this was too much for the Hulk to get involved, and Steve definitely agreed), they find dozens of metal suits already taking care of the problem, with a desperate, bruised, beaten-to-hell Tony battling Killian in one of them (now he knows what Tony was doing in his workshop when he was supposed to be sleeping, and it _hurts_ because Tony didn’t say a word to him).

Steve doesn’t get a chance to ask Tony where he’s been, how he survived the blast to the mansion, what the hell is with these suits, because he’s now fighting dozens of glowing soldiers who breathe fire (because apparently that is his life now).

It’s a scream that draws his attention, and he looks just quickly enough to see Pepper fall, right into an inferno, and Tony is just staring at where she fell with disbelief, like he can’t believe he didn’t catch her (Steve knows how he feels; there was a train going over the Danube River where he didn’t catch Bucky the way he was supposed to).

He adds Pepper to that list of names.

Tony runs at Killian in either rage or determination, but manages to skid right underneath him, enveloping himself in another one of his suits. Steve turns back because there’s another glowing soldier lunging for him. He ducks the blow, kicking out, catching her in the chest, which sends her flying back. Another one grabs him around the neck, the heat from his forearm singing Steve’s neck and making him wince, but he’ll heal. He throws the soldier over one of the railings, and Natasha shoots them in the head as they fall, just so they won’t get back up again. But at this point, he’s lost sight of Tony.

He turns around, and his heart catches in his throat, because there’s Tony on the ground, his metal suit in pieces around him, ducking the debris that falls from above, with a burning, deformed Killian looming over him. Steve ducks a red-hot beam as it falls and jumps over the railing, running as fast as he can towards Killian (he made a promise: he won’t add Tony to that list of names).

But he stops midway, because right in the middle of Killian’s angry speech, he’s knocked out by a metal pole, with a very much alive, crimson-glowing Pepper standing right behind him, panting with anger and exertion.

_Well, hell._

One of Tony’s metal suits rounds the corner of the oil rig and fires a high-pitched blast at Pepper, who bats it away with her pole. She turns angry, incredulous, red-rimmed eyes onto Tony, who cringes away.

“What, are you mad at me?” he asks, bewildered.

Pepper runs up to him and for a moment, Steve thinks whatever Extremis did to her has turned her insane, but all she does is step onto Tony’s upturned knee, jumping into the air and slamming her fist _right through the metal_. She lands in a crouch and rips her way through the metal gauntlet such that it’s covering her fingers. She backhands Killian when he comes for her again.

Natasha makes an approving noise behind him.

Pepper kicks a small cylindrical missile in Killian’s direction and blasts it while it’s still mid-air. It blows up in a ball of fire right in front of Killian, sending him flying back so that he hits the rig.

“Jesus,” Tony breathes, and Steve remembers that he’s still on the ground.

He runs up and grips Tony by the shoulder, pulling him up bodily so that he can squeeze him into an embrace.

“Woah, hey, there, American Pie, how goes it?” Tony mutters into his neck.

Tony smells like sweat and gasoline and soot and something burning, but Steve is just glad he’s here.

“I thought you were dead,” Steve whispers, lifting Tony into the air easily.

Tony cups the back of his skull. “Not yet, babe.”

_But you could’ve been. And I would’ve been useless._

Steve remembers why.

He drops Tony back onto his feet, so that his partner can deal with Pepper who is freaking out and refusing to let Clint and Natasha come near her. Steve takes the chance and snatches Natasha’s gun from the holster on his hip. Natasha makes a noise of confusion and chagrin but isn’t fast enough to stop Steve on a mission, taking long strides to where Killian is lying, healing, _still alive_.

“Can’t regrow a brain, Killian,” Steve says, quietly, and he pulls the trigger.

Killian’s brains splatter on the ground like something out of a horror movie.

“ _Steve!_ ”

Steve turns around to see Tony staring at him with his eyes wide open in shock, but all Steve feels is vindicated. This man-no, this _monster_ hurt Tony; drove Tony away from his home; made him feel unsafe; kidnapped the President; hurt and tortured hundreds of people.

This monster doesn’t deserve to live.

“Steve, why did you do that?” Tony’s voice is all quiet.

Steve storms up to him and clasps him by the shoulders.

_He tried to kill you, Tony. He could’ve, and I wouldn’t have even been able to stop him. I can’t excuse that, Tony. Please don’t ask me to._

“I made a promise: I won’t lose you too.”

* * *

HYDRA lives, and it turns out that Steve died for nothing.

Because Bucky is alive.

Because Bucky didn’t die when he fell from that train.

Because Bucky has been HYDRA’s plaything for seventy years.

And Steve didn’t save him.

Bucky always saved him, but Steve never saved Bucky.

It’s why he takes the bullet, even though he heard the whistle from the gun as Bucky fired and he could’ve easily dodged it.

He deserved the bullet.

But he can’t let all those people die because he fucked up. So, he stops HYDRA. He doesn’t fight Bucky because he can’t. And he has to ignore Tony screaming at him in his ear through the comms as he drops his shield. It falls through a crack in the Helicarrier, into the water below, but Steve won’t allow himself to lose sleep over it.

Before he is Captain America, he is Steve Rogers.

And Steve Rogers loves Bucky Barnes.

“You’re my friend.”

He doesn’t do anything when Bucky roars with rage, lunging for him, his face contorted with a heart-wrenching mix of hate and confusion. Steve hits the ground and pain racks through his body.

“ _Steve_. _Steve_. _Get up, Steve_.”

 _Tony_.

It hurts to breathe, and Steve is sure there’s something wrong with his lungs. There’s something leaking inside him; he can feel it, but Bucky is crouched over him, hitting him repeatedly, until Steve feels his jaw and cheekbones break open.

He just takes it.

“You’re my mission.”

“Steve, please,” Tony says, roughly, in his ear, like he’s halfway to tears (Steve has never actually seen Tony cry; Tony is too strong for that; Tony will survive, Tony _always_ survives). “Please, Steve. Fight back. Don’t die there. Don’t do this to me again.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Steve mumbles through a swollen jaw and torn muscles.

Bucky, thinking that Steve is speaking to him, stops short, his clenched fists, knuckles stained with blood (Steve’s blood) hovering in the air.

“Finish it,” Steve wheezes out. “Cause I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”

Something changes in Bucky’s expression, or at least Steve hopes, because Bucky stops.

It doesn’t matter in the long run because whatever is left of the foundation of the helicarrier breaks away completely and Steve falls. He doesn’t even register hitting the water (in retrospect, he’s happy he doesn’t remember; he remembers the ice coiling around him well enough, he doesn’t need to add this to his nightmares too).

When he wakes up, he’s in a hospital bed and it hurts to move. But Tony is there, his head propped up on Steve’s thigh, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open. His hair is sticking up in all directions and he can’t resist splaying his free hand on top of Tony’s head, carefully smoothing his fingers through Tony’s hair.

Tony wakes up, sure enough, and his face is a mix of concern and anger, and Steve grimaces – he’s in for it now. Tony briefly checks all of the equipment that is beeping incessantly and his IV, before he rounds on a hesitant Steve.

“You’re an idiot,” Tony hisses, jumping off his chair. He slams Steve’s shield down beside the hospital cot. “Thought you might like this back.” He says, snidely.

“Tony,” Steve croaks out. “Tony, wait.”

He needs to explain.

But Tony just walks out, brushing past an awkwardly stunned Sam, who’s hovering in the doorway.

* * *

When Steve returns to the Tower, Tony is still angry with him. But he’s still standing there, in the entrance. It gives Steve hope.

“You’re okay?” Tony asks, his face closed-off.

Steve nods, hesitantly. “Tony, I-”

Tony holds up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Tony, it was _Bucky_ ,” Steve says, like it explains everything.

It should; he’s spoken about Bucky enough to Tony that he should know.

“Yeah,” Tony grits his teeth, and it’s painful to see him like this, like he’s just expecting the worst. “I got that,” he spits out.

“If there was even a _chance_ of getting him to remember who he is,” Steve tries to explain.

Tony shakes his head. “You were willing to die for him,” he says, bitterly. He looks away. “Why am I not surprised?”

Steve takes a deep breath. “It wasn’t like that, Tony,” he pleads.

“Bullshit,” Tony snaps. “Then, what was it like?” He shakes his head. “You were willing to die for some remote, far-fetched shot that a brainwashed assassin, who’s been tortured and held prisoner for seventy years by literally the biggest scumbags in existence, would just _remember_ that the two of you used to be besties from way back.”

“He needed my help,” Steve insists.

“And we could’ve gotten him some,” Tony retorts. “ _Without_ you essentially committing suicide.”

“I didn’t see any other choice,” Steve murmurs.

Then, Tony is shouting at him, calling him _reckless_ and _impulsive_ and _dumb_ and _don’t you get that I’d fucking miss you if you died, you jackass?_ and _do you even care you’d be leaving me behind?_

The way Tony looks at him, half heartbroken, half furious, makes him shake on the inside.

Tony thinks he’s a placeholder, a throwaway. Of course, he does. It’s Tony, and Tony does everything to stop people from leaving him and gets surprised when they stay right where they are, by his side.

But Steve has never wanted Tony to think he doesn’t love him with everything inside him. He never wants Tony to think he is second, to anything, to anyone (he loves Bucky, he does; but Tony is Tony; Tony is the only thing that makes him _smile, feel anything_ in this century and he can’t-he _won’t_ forget that)

That’s why he tells Tony about Howard and Maria.

That’s why he stays there when Tony breaks things and runs away to his workshop for three solid days, before stumbling back up to their bedroom in Avengers Tower and crawling into bed and huddles into Steve’s unshakeable warmth.

Steve feels something loosen in his ribcage in relief and curls his arms around Tony, who is shock-cold.

“You’re freezing,” Steve hums into his hair.

Tony smiles, humourlessly, against where he’s smushed against Steve’s chest.

“The workshop is cold,” he replies, blithely.

“You could’ve turned the heat up, or asked JARVIS to,” Steve tells him.

Tony shakes his head. “It wouldn’t have worked.”

Steve falls silent.

“It was my fault,” he says, dully.

Tony frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“Bucky, falling from the train. It was my fault. I should’ve-I should’ve caught him. And I didn’t. And he ended up a slave to those Nazi bastards,” Steve growls. “I fucked up, and Bucky paid the price.”

“Steve…” Tony trails off.

“I’d never leave you if I could,” he says, fiercely. “But I need to help him. He… I let him get hurt for seventy years. I wasn’t there. If our situations were the opposite, Bucky would do the same for me. I can’t just leave him out there, Tony.”

“I know,” Tony says, quietly. “You wouldn’t be you if you just left him alone out there.”

“I don’t expect you to help me,” Steve says, firmly. “He… hurt you. He hurt your family. I’d never ask you to…” he swallows hard. “You don’t have to help me.”

“I’ll help,” Tony blurts out.

Steve looks down, his brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Tony sighs and lifts himself up so that he’s balancing his body on a propped elbow. “I’ll help you find him.”

“Tony…” Steve begins, unsure.

“I want to help. Not just because he’s your friend, but because… he killed my mother. Or he didn’t. But I’ll never be able to find the fucker who ordered the hit anyway. He or she is probably already dead. So, my only way of getting justice for my parents is finding Barnes and fixing whatever’s fucked up in his head,” Tony finishes, steadily.

Steve doesn’t know what to say to that. Instead, he kisses the crown of Tony’s head and pulls him close.

“Thank you, Tony,” he murmurs.

* * *

Tony builds Ultron, but Steve understands. He’s seen it in the shake of Tony’s hands, like he’s barely holding himself back from falling apart, when Tony comes back from a day of trying to rebuild New York. It hurts him, physically and mentally, staring at what had been his home for so much of his life – now nothing but ruins and the ghosts of dead people.

Tony never wants anything like New York to happen again.

Steve feels it too. He hasn’t been able to set foot in New York since the Chitauri invaded. He is too much of a coward to see the destruction wrought by a few people in a high-rise office somewhere thinking they could play God with thousands of lives.

So, when the rest of their team is glaring at Tony, like he’s the scum of the Earth and not the brilliant, kind, considerate man that he truly is, there is no hesitation in him before he’s shouldering Tony, such that everyone else appreciates that he’s on Tony’s side (he is _always_ on Tony’s side).

Tony just wants to protect them; is there anything more righteous, more justifiable than that?

Thor, on the other hand, is apoplectic, his fist curling at his side (Steve thinks he’s being a very good person by not reminding Thor that he’s the one who gave Tony and Bruce his blessing to tinker around with the spear in the first place). But Steve genuinely hopes he doesn’t have to test his strength against a Norse God without his shield, if Thor decides to do something stupid.

“Enough,” Steve says, firmly. “This is all pointless. Ultron’s calling us out. And I'd like to find him before he's ready for us. The world's a big place. Let's start making it smaller.”

Ultron is busy in South Africa, with the Maximoff twins, making a deal with an arms dealer that makes Steve’s skin crawl. The Maximoff twins are brutal together, accompanied by Tony’s bastardised Iron Legion, and it takes the collective strength of Steve, Thor, Natasha, and Clint to deal with them while Tony takes Ultron head-on – Steve hadn’t been happy when his partner joined the Avengers Initiative, even though SHIELD had already been aware of the Iron Man suit long before the Mandarin and it makes him wonder just how much there is about his partner he still doesn’t know, but Tony’s readiness to fight Ultron singlehandedly makes him even unhappier.

He’s vaulting into the air and seizing a Legionnaire by the air, yanking the robot down so that he can separate its arms and legs from its torso, when his vision is filled with wisps of crimson-red and his muscles fall slack abruptly.

Steve takes a deep breath, the walls closing in on him. A shot rings out, and he cringes inwardly. When he turns around, it’s to the strings of swing, and Peggy Carter is standing beside him, looking as beautiful as she ever did in his memories.

“Are you ready for our dance?”

He’s in Peggy’s arms, swaying to a nice rhythm, and then white light blinds him and he’s in his bedroom, shared with Tony, who’s in bed, in a black tank top, fiddling with his tablet. He looks up and smiles at Steve like he’s his entire world.

“Hey, Angry Bird, are you coming to bed?”

Steve nods and crawls into the bed. Tony settles in beside him and continues working on blueprints, while Steve picks up a book that’s lying on the bedside table and starts to read.

There’s a flash, and he’s spinning Peggy outwards and pulling her in for a dip, to which she laughs, bright and bold, her lipstick gleaming.

She fades in his arms like smoke, and Steve can feel his stomach give out from underneath him, his heart pounding so hard that he thinks it’ll come out of his chest.

There’s another flash, and he’s hovering over Tony, who arching up towards him, invitingly, naked, his legs wrapped around Steve’s waits and hands splayed on his shoulders. Steve thrusts, testing the waters, and Tony swears, nails digging into his skin. Steve grins and kisses Tony’s neck, murmuring _I love you_ into his skin.

When he comes back to himself, he’s hunched up in a chair on the Quinjet, Tony hovering in front of him.

“Hey, honey, you doing okay?” Tony’s voice is gentle, like he’s talking to a child.

Steve nods, his neck a little stiff. “I’m okay,” he says, hoarsely.

Steve looks around. Natasha’s eyes are bloodshot, her face sunken in, and her hands are folded in her lap so tightly they’re a much paler shade of white than the rest of her skin. Clint is at the helm, his shoulders stalwart. Thor is standing in one corner, with his back to the rest of them, his fists clenched at his side as if, if he could, he’d punch right through the walls of the Quinjet.

But Bruce is the worst. He’s wrapped up in a blanket, slumped in a pile of arms and legs on the floor, his skin streaked with dirt and his face damp with sweat. His eyes are dead, though. That’s what concerns Steve the most.

“What happened?” Steve whispers.

Tony’s mouth thins – whatever it is, it isn’t good. “The Maximoff girl. She got you all.”

“Got us?” Steve doesn’t understand.

“She fucked with your heads. Made you see things. All of you. Except Clint and me.”

Steve eyes Bruce. “Banner?”

“She let the Hulk out,” Tony says, grimly. “He…” He purposely lowers his voice such that Bruce can’t hear them. “The Hulk flipped out in Johannesburg. I had to use Veronica to contain him.”

Steve remembers the Hulkbuster armour that Tony and Bruce had been working on, in an attempt to build a failsafe for an eventuality where the Avengers were faced with a rogue Hulk.

Steve had hoped to God that they’d never make any use of it.

“Any dead?” Steve has to ask.

Tony bites his lip. “A few,” he replies, honestly. “Before I could get to Bruce. Many injured though. And a lot of structural damage. I contacted Hill. The Stark Relief Foundation is on their way.”

“We should be helping,” Steve exhales.

“They won’t have us,” Tony says, firmly. “As far as they’re concerned, it’s our fault.”

Steve sighs and slumps back against his chair. “What do we do now?”

Tony shrugs and slides to his feet. “What we’re supposed to do. Avenge.”

* * *

Bruce and Tony make Vision, but Sokovia still falls. The Maximoffs join them, although Steve is still a little concerned about their loyalties. He hasn’t forgotten HYDRA and what they stand for. He hasn’t forgotten his team's faces after the battle on the _Churchill_. He hasn’t forgotten Johannesburg. But Ultron is too much for the Avengers alone, and they need the twins.

The Maximoff boy – Pietro – dies saving Client and the civilian he’s protecting; Bruce runs away (Steve can’t blame him; if he could, he’d run too), but together, they manage to stop Ultron. The battle isn’t as momentous and heroic as it should have been. Sokovia is still in ruins and countries, in solidarity with the fallen state, want their heads on spikes, but Tony shields them, putting himself between the Avengers and anything that would come at them.

In this sense, Tony is much stronger than Steve.

Steve doesn’t often stay in the Avengers Compound, the massive estate Tony had built for them, after the Avengers Tower was destroyed in Ultron’s rampage. He should; he is still the leader of the Avengers, whatever is left of them now (he shouldn’t say that; Wanda, Sam, Vision and Rhodey are great additions, no matter what he personally thinks of the former after the Ultron fiasco, but they will never be _his_ team).

But he can’t stay; how can he, when Bucky is still out there, and Tony is spiralling without him? Tony takes an active role in helping him, mapping out facial recognition algorithms and checking in with FRIDAY to see whether one James Buchanan Barnes has been spotted on surveillance footage anywhere (Steve misses JARVIS; he had gotten so used to hearing the British AI’s voice that _JARVIS_ is on the tip of his tongue when he hears Vision speak – he can’t imagine how Tony feels, but sometimes, in the dead of night, when he’s slowly pulling Tony out of a nightmare, Tony will say, “ _J, can you turn the lights back on?”_ and then fall silent, realising what he has just said and what the truth in his life is).

Instead, he stays in Tony’s penthouse. It’s nicer there. It’s kinder. Tony is there. They have a deal: Steve can only stay in the gym for two hours at a time, then he has to spend three hours somewhere less _mopey_ , as Tony put it, and must stop trolling the leftover SHIELD agents at the Avengers Compound (Tony actually likes it when he pretends to be a clueless nonagenarian, so this rule is strictly a guideline and Steve is given a _lot_ of discretion). In reciprocation, Tony is not allowed to pull all-nighters in his workshop, he must eat whatever Steve puts in front of him, and he’s forbidden from turning all the kitchen appliances into self-functioning robots so that he doesn’t have to pick up after himself.

It works for them. It’s the most domestic Steve’s been since before Bucky got drafted and that urge to be part of the war effort set in his bones. It’s comfortable, soothing, but there’s still some rawness in him, and there will be, until he knows Bucky is safe and unharmed.

So, he leaves as soon as Tony finds some intel. Natasha helps out, gets in touch with her many contacts all over the world, and often, they manage to pin Bucky down. Steve and Sam go after him, but miss him by days, speaking to kind old landladies who rented out a spare room or a small flat to the quiet boy who carried lumber by day or worked on the docks and always paid his rent on time, even helped the old women carry their groceries in if he happened to be home at that time, fixed a leaky pipe or changed a flickering lightbulb.

In the end, Steve doesn’t even have to look for Bucky. Bucky comes to him. Or, actually, Bucky comes to Tony. Steve comes home one day, after training the new Avengers, goes down to the workshop, to find Bucky lying in Tony’s chair, while his partner works on Bucky’s metal arm.

“If I replace this wiring here, you should be able to have full sensation in your arm,” Tony is explaining, focusing on the innards of the panel in front of him.

Bucky shifts, swallowing hard. “What does that mean?”

His voice is rough, sore, but it’s so familiar that Steve wants to cry, then and there.

“Basically, what I’m going to do is replace this wiring, which will upgrade the sensors in your fingertips, which will then measure the pressure applied to whatever you touch. The sensors will then record the measurements, convert them into a neural code and transmit the code through the wires to the electrodes that you already have implanted around nerve bundles in your forearm and upper arm – unless you want me to upgrade those too, because they’re kind of shit and I could do so much better. _Anyway_ , once the neural code reaches your nerves, the signal is transmitted through your healthy neural pathways which weren’t affected by your amputation, to your brain. The brain then interprets the signals as feeling, like it’s your actual hand.”

“That… didn’t make anything clearer. I only understood every third word of what you just said,” Bucky tells him, and then all of his muscles tighten as if expecting a blow.

Tony pauses, then nods. “Yeah, that’s pretty normal for me.” His shoulders slump. “You’ll have feeling back, in your arm. Would you like that?”

Bucky exhales. “What will it cost me?” he asks, wearily.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Steve needs to interject here. “Tony’s not like that, Buck.”

Bucky raises his head, and it strikes Steve that Bucky _knew_ he was there; how could he not have? And he stayed.

That’s enough for Steve.

“Yeah, I figured you wouldn’t be having it off with a snake, Steve,” Bucky replies.

Steve flushes. “Don’t be so crude, Buck.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “So, you two aren’t playing hide-the-sausage?” he teases.

Steve grimaces.

Tony’s lips twitch, and, frankly, Steve is bewildered how his partner had kept his mouth shut until that point. He puts his hand in the air just to be a punk. “Just a question: is playing hide-the-sausage a euphemism for fucking?”

“Yes,” Bucky answers, immediately.

Tony looks at Steve, expectantly.

Steve just turns on his feet and proceeds back up to the penthouse, feeling lighter than he has in years.

But he’s beginning to think it was a terrible idea for Bucky and Tony to meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of that robotic prosthetic talk comes from this article: http://time.com/4104723/a-prosthetic-hand-that-can-feel/


	4. iv.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Sokovia Accords discussion, character death (on and off-screen), graphic violence, civilian deaths, Steve is NOT okay.

Bucky doesn’t stay; he says he’s not ready for it.

Steve has to let him go, even if it kills him to do so – Bucky’s choice is what matters; it’s been taken from him too much over the decades.

He runs into HYDRA agents often on his missions, and he takes his frustrations out on them. He kills them now, doesn’t even take them prisoner anymore. They’re Nazi cunts, and they’ve earned their deaths. Sam is wary; Steve can see that. There are concerned conversations behind closed doors, between Sam, Natasha and Tony. Sometimes, Tony looks at him with caution, but it quickly morphs into a warm smile. He knows what they think, but he can’t lose sight of what he’s doing. He’s protecting them, after all. There are too many monsters in this brave new world, and he has to conquer all of them, or everything he holds dear now (Tony, Bucky, the Avengers) will be ripped away from him just as it was when he went into the ice.

That’s why he kills Brock Rumlow. The fucker is taunting him about how they beat Bucky black and blue before _putting his brain in a blender,_ and all Steve sees is red; he reaches out and snaps his neck, but not before Rumlow pulls the trigger on the bomb strapped to his chest.

Wanda saves him, wisps of red holding the bomb in stasis as she throws it up into the air (he’s never been able to strip himself of his suspicion – _once HYDRA, always HYDRA, after all –_ but even he’s glad she’s there). But even though she saves his life, eleven Wakandan relief aid workers and dozens more civilians die when the bomb leaves a nearby building in ruins.

Nigeria is furious. Wakanda is furious.

Tony is furious.

Sokovia is vindicated.

Steve listens when Tony lectures them all on state responsibility and sovereignty and the possibility of indictments and _how we can’t fucking go into other countries, breach their sovereignty, blow shit up and act like we’re doing them a favour; it’s not fucking 2003 and the symbol of America cannot traipse across their fucking borders, get into an all-out fucking brawl with terrorists in a fucking crowded marketplace and expect their understanding_. Steve only gets angry when Secretary Ross finishes his speech about the Sokovia Accords, and he realises, with just a single look at Tony’s face, that Tony knew about this and said nothing to him.

“I thought we don’t do this,” Steve growls.

Tony crosses his arms over his chest. “Do what?” he asks, blithely, like he doesn’t know what’s wrong, doesn’t know why Steve is angry.

“Keep things from each other,” Steve answers, coldly.

Tony shakes his head. “You really want to be having this conversation right now?” he challenges. “All the fucking world powers are on our doorstep, Steve. We can’t be having a couples’ fight right now.”

Steve grits his teeth against the blow those words are. “It’s not like we’re fighting over who’s in charge of what we watch on TV tonight, Tony. This could change our lives. You knew about it, and you didn’t tell me.”

“Because I knew what you’d say,” Tony shoots back.

“What?” Steve demands. “What did you think I’d say?”

“Your usual freedom spiel after HYDRA’s whole Bitch in Sheep’s Clothing act. _We can’t be tied down; we need to be in control of our own actions; I’m sick of people pulling our strings_. I’ve heard it all and it’s shit, because what _we_ want stops being important when there are people dying because we made shitty choices and because we could’ve done better. There’s no argument beyond that.”

“There is _always_ an argument,” Steve snaps. “You, of all people, can’t be arguing this kind of restraint. You essentially said _fuck you_ to a bunch of jumped-up butter-and-egg men who wanted your suit, and now you’re advocating the opposite? Does that even make any sense to you?”

Tony opens his mouth to retort, but Steve runs roughshod.

“These people, _these strangers_ , can barely get along with themselves, let alone sit politely on a committee to decide where and when _we_ should go, like they fucking own us. They’ve _actively_ ruined our lives and countless others and you think _they_ should be in charge of _our_ actions?” Steve asks, incredulously.

“The United Nations is _not_ the World Security Council,” Tony snaps. “They don’t have the power to do what you _think_ they’re capable of doing. And even if they did, there are ways to make sure that we don’t get taken for a ride. Did you think I’d just sign away our liberty to determine how the Avengers protect the world without seriously considering the consequences?”

“You don’t _know_ they’re different,” Steve shoots back. “There’s never been a group like us before. There’s hardly a precedent for any of this. Who knows what they’re willing to do to keep us under their control? And clearly you haven’t, because that’s exactly what the Accords are proposing. Tell me, Tony, what are you going to do when the Council expects us to interfere somewhere because one of the members has a stake in it, or asks us to stay put when people are dying? What if a country says no to us intervening? How do we _know_ this is what the people want?”

“Being a superhero is not a right; it’s a responsibility, Steve,” Tony insists. “And if we can’t be held accountable for the mistakes we make, especially when they result in people dying, then we aren’t heroes anymore. We’re the villains. Of course, it’s possible for things to go wrong. We are never going to be sure what the people want. But this is our only shot to make things right, for _everything_.”

“If this is about Ultron-” Steve begins.

“This is not-this is _not_ about Ultron,” Tony flings out, his teeth bared in offence. “I have been advocating accountability since 2008, since I found out that a bunch of low-life terrorists were using the weapons _I_ made to protect my country and its soldiers to terrorise innocent people. So, don’t insult me by blaming my choices solely on guilt.”

“I can’t see how this is a better solution, Tony,” Steve admits. “All this does is hush up the blame. It turns what we do into a damn performance review. Who’s really being held responsible for what happens?”

“Newsflash, Steve: none of us have ever been held responsible for what’s happened in the past. If we had been, Bruce and I would be in jail for making Ultron. Wanda would be in prison for helping him. Clint and Natasha would be in prison for being actual assassins. You and Sam would be in prison for breaking into and stealing from a military base. Thor’s probably the only one who’d get off scot free, and that’s if people are willing to acknowledge that they don’t have any authority over an alien prince.”

Steve’s expression betrays his hesitation, because Tony’s face visibly cracks open, before it clears, now replaced with righteous anger.

“You said you wanted to do better than SHIELD. Well, SHIELD didn’t have boundaries; SHIELD didn’t have rules; SHIELD did whatever the fuck it wanted, and that was how HYDRA managed to sneak its way in right under their noses. You want to do better than SHIELD? Sign the damn Accords, and we can make sure that none of us get taken for a ride by some douchebag on a power trip. We can make sure that any concerns you have are _dealt_ with, properly, without you getting arrested for being a vigilante, because _that is what we are right now_. Please, Steve, I’m begging you. You know I would never do anything that stood in the way of us helping people. Trust me on that. Just sign the Accords and we can work everything out.”

Steve takes a deep breath. His jaw sets.

He loves Tony. He does; he’d burn the whole world to the ground if it means keeping Tony happy, but he can’t do this.

He won’t be their monster on a leash.

He won’t agree to Tony being their monster on a leash.

He won’t agree to any of their friends being their monsters on a leash.

He deserves better than that.

They deserve better than that.

He’s supposed to be the shield between their enemies and his friends, and _he’s failing_.

He can’t fail.

“No. I’m sorry, but no.”

Tony looks like he would very much like to throttle him, if he got the chance (honestly, it makes Steve want to smile; Tony looks so adorable).

“If we don’t sign now, if we don’t do what they want, something worse will be done to us later,” Tony reminds him, quietly.

“Then, let’s fight,” Steve begs. “You and me, against the world. We could stop it. We could stop them from taking advantage of us. You have another choice, Tony. You could choose _me_.”

Tony takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to,” he says, sincerely.

It would be kinder if Tony had just punched him.

“I _believe_ in this. Not because of guilt. Not because of I’m scared of what they’ll do if I don’t. But because I think we need to be held accountable for our mistakes. Because this is how the world works. This is how the world _should_ work. You clearly don’t feel the same way, and I don’t hold that against you.”

Tony reaches for his hands and Steve willingly goes.

“I know where you’re coming from. I understand. Believe me, if I could, I would. I _would_ side with you. It’s _killing_ me not to. But I can’t,” Tony whispers.

“Neither can I,” Steve confesses (he wants to, but he can’t).

Is this where they draw their line?

Steve wants to vomit.

It can’t end like this.

He can’t lose Tony like this.

“I could sit down, give the Accords another read-” Steve begins.

“It wouldn’t do much good, would it?” Tony says, knowingly.

Steve shrugs. “Doubtful.”

He knows his own mind.

“Steve, I don’t want you to agree with me because you love me. And I don’t want to agree with you because I love _you_. We deserve better than that. Our relationship, what we have, it means more to me than that.”

“So, we just lock horns, refuse to compromise, and somehow our relationship doesn’t crash and burn?” Steve says, sceptically. “I don’t that’ll work, Tony.”

“Well, before the two of us, there’d never been a super soldier or a billionaire in a flying metal suit. I’d say if anyone could figure it out, it’d be us,” Tony jokes, but it falls flat.

Steve laughs because it’s expected of him, but he’s never wanted anything more in this moment than to cry.

* * *

He can’t sign. Not even for Tony, no matter how much he loves him. He can’t let the monsters put another leash on him, not after New York, not after SHIELD. He’d rather be a vigilante than be a weapon for anyone, like he has always been, like Bucky was.

He won’t be reduced to an attack dog.

Not again.

In the end, it doesn’t matter, because while they’re sitting in silence, their phones simultaneously chime. They break off mid-conversation to look down at the messages that have popped up on their screen.

They both wish they hadn’t.

_She went in her sleep. I’m sorry._

Tony sinks into a chair in front of Steve, fisting his hand in his slacks, his nails leaving behind little pinch-marks in the material.

They both fly to London, Steve to say goodbye to his first love and the first person to stare at what Project Rebirth fashioned and believe he could do more than be a dancing monkey, and Tony to say goodbye to his beloved godmother, a woman who had loved him just as much as his mother had, who had trusted in his providence to do great things someday, even with Howard’s unfair expectations hanging over his head like a guillotine waiting to fall.

They greet Peggy’s children. Tony hugs them warmly, like they’re all old friends, like family, and Steve supposes they are (he has always shut his eyes to the fact that Peggy and Tony have this entire life beyond him, one where he’s completely irrelevant – these two beautiful people that he loves had an entire life together without him; Tony knows Peggy and her family in ways that he can’t possibly comprehend or contend with, and it doesn’t make any sense).

Steve stays on the outside – he is not a part of this.

Peggy’s children have met him, have heard the stories, but he imagines it’s a hell of an awkward moment meeting their mother’s old almost-sweetheart, especially when that almost-sweetheart is now dating their godbrother, as Peggy’s children so affectionately refer to him.

Steve threads his fingers through Tony’s, and they proceed up the aisle of the church, to where the coffin so ominously lays, carrying a woman no one ever thought Death could reach; that’s just how indomitable she seemed.

Peggy is still so beautiful. Her dark brown hair has faded to a worn grey, her smooth, supple skin withered, but she is still the most beautiful woman he has ever known. Peggy was the last, besides him and Bucky, with all the Howling Commandos gone as well. To see her go, it’s a blow he should’ve expected, but could never have prepared himself for.

He turns around and spots Sam and Natasha sitting in pews towards the back of the church, giving him comforting looks. He is grateful for their presence, but Tony hasn’t moved an inch beside him, just staring blankly at Peggy’s peaceful expression.

“Tony?”

Tony shakes his head. He touches his fingers to Peggy’s cheek; his hand trembles, and then he strides back down to join Peggy’s children, leaving Steve alone.

Steve aches for the comfort that Tony would bring, but he also understands how hard it is for Tony to lose yet another parental figure, after Howard and Maria and Jarvis and Ana. Peggy Carter was the last remnant of a simpler time for both of them.

Steve reaches into the coffin, gripping Peggy’s hand, which is limp, bony and cold in his (he remembers Peggy’s hands during the war; she had such beautiful hands, he used to sketch them all the time).

“Goodbye, Peggy,” he whispers.

He feels that sharp grip in his ribcage as he turns around and leaves the one of the most wonderful, brave, _formidable_ women he has ever known in a black box, to be buried in the fresh, damp earth with flowers and grief.

* * *

That night, he, Tony, Sam and Sharon are in a hotel room, drinking generously from the minibar (Natasha had left earlier, citing that she wanted to be in Vienna when the Accords were signed). Steve’s head is resting in Tony’s lap as the latter strokes through his hair, raking his nails across his scalp in a way that Tony knows has him purring like a kitten (it should be embarrassing, to be so lax in front of his friends, but he hasn’t been able to think of anything beyond Tony’s clever hands). Sharon is watching them with interest; she still has trouble believing that the same Captain America her aunt told her stories about is dating her wickedly intelligent, kind, but genuinely hot mess of a goduncle – Steve remembers when she had pretended to be a mysterious agent with an equally mysterious codename, but, unfortunately for her, Tony had quickly debunked that by conveniently and loudly exclaiming _Share Bear_ when Steve introduced him to his new neighbour, Kate (Sharon still hasn’t quite forgiven Tony for it).

Steve’s delirium is abruptly nipped in the bud when Tony shakes him roughly. His eyes snap open, and he blinks up at Tony, whose eyes are wide and focused on the television in front of them.

Steve turns her head, only to see a flashing headline on a news channel.

_BOMBING AT THE VIENNA INTERNATIONAL CENTRE._

_KING T’CHAKA OF WAKANDA AND TWELVE MORE DEAD._

_SUSPECT RUMOURED TO BE JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES._

Steve jackknifes and stares at the screen.

“What’s going on?” he wonders out loud.

“There was a bombing at Vienna, during the signing of the Accords. They have surveillance footage, and the suspect looks a lot like Bucky, Steve,” Tony tells him, quietly.

Steve jumps off the couch, feeling his heart pound like a jackhammer in his chest.

“They’ll-they’ll send people after him, won’t they?” Steve looks to Tony and Sam and Sharon for confirmation. “They’ll try and kill him now, won’t they, if they think he’s a terrorist?”

Tony reaches for Steve’s hand, centring him. “Steve, it’s okay. The chances of actually finding him… he’s good, Steve. Really good. He stumped you and Sam and Natasha for ages.”

Steve takes a deep breath. “We need to find him first.”

* * *

Tony heads to Vienna, to where Natasha is still waiting, thankfully uninjured by the blast, while Steve and Sam, despite making promises to Tony, search for Bucky. They find Bucky in a rundown flat in Bucharest, but Bucky isn’t surprised to see them. It ends up in an all-out firefight between them and the German special forces, and then when running from the task force, they’re beset by a man in a panther suit, with the kind of strength, agility and skill that Bucky and Steve only possess because of the serum running through their veins.

But Steve is waylaid by the task force and loses sight of Bucky and the Panther Man, and it makes him see red. He’s less than courteous with the task force and hears bones crack and muffled screams behind their visors when he tears right through the lot, racing after Bucky and his mysterious assailant. He finds himself in a tunnel, narrowly avoiding hitting civilians with his shield as he runs past them. A car follows him close behind, the siren blaring ominously, as the person inside shouts at him to _stand down_. He takes a chance and rolls on top of the car, forcing it to come to a stop. He jumps down and runs to the driver’s side, pulling the door off its hinges and throwing it down, where it skids right into oncoming traffic. He grabs the dazed officer behind the wheel by the collar and throws him somewhere over his shoulder. He does hear the officer’s body hit the wall with a resounding and chilling _thunk_ , but he can’t bring himself to care as he shoulders into the car and shatters the windshield with his shield.

He drives as fast as he can, dodging the cars that are still on the road in front of him. Ahead, he can see Bucky literally running over the top of cars in order to escape the Panther Man who’s hot on his heels. He manages to speed up such that he gets in front of the Panther Man, who doesn’t take it too well, because he vaults over another car and lands on the tail of the car, his claws gouging right into the metal. He swerves recklessly, trying to unseat the Panther Man, but to no avail.

Everything happens so quickly. He rams into another sedan blaring a siren, hoping that he can get rid of two birds with one stone. The task force looms on the other side, but Bucky dodges them by going left instead. A motorbike heads right for him, and Steve watches as he grips the handlebar with one hand, simultaneously knocking the driver off the seat with the other, spins the motorbike in a full circle and straddles it himself.

And then he’s off.

Steve is right behind him as Bucky races down the tunnel. He has to get there before the task force, before Bucky is taken, but the Panther Man climbs onto the roof of the car and skids over the front, landing on top of Bucky, curling his legs around him. Bucky tries to unseat him, but the Panther Man holds on tight, to the point that the bike topples over and Bucky’s metal hand scrapes across the gravel in sparks. The impact is enough to knock Panther Man off the bike, and Sam grabs him, wrestling with him in mid-air. Steve continues driving but Bucky throws a small disc onto the roof of the tunnel, and the wall explodes inwards, throwing Steve for a spin. He jumps out of the car right into the falling rubble, while it rolls behind him. He lunges forward, grabbing the Panther Man by the waist and physically throwing him away from Bucky, who’s lying on the ground, eyes wide-blown and terrified, but resigned to his fate.

As if he thought he was about to die.

As if he knew he couldn’t rely on Steve to save him – why would he, when Steve has always failed him?

But he won’t fail Bucky again.

Steve’s shield is poised in front of him as the Panther Man stares at both him and Bucky, presumably figuring out the best way of taking out Steve and getting to Bucky (he must know at this point that Steve will never step aside and just let him _have_ Bucky).

But it doesn’t matter in the end, because they are swarmed by the authorities. Helicopters whir above them, and they are surrounded by black sedans, with operatives jumping out and aiming the barrels of massive firearms at him, Bucky, and the Panther Man.

War Machine lands in a signature crouch, and his gauntlets whir as he aims them at whomever is brave enough to engage.

“Stand down,” Rhodey orders. “Now.”

There is no mercy in his voice.

Steve takes a deep breath. He could fight off the task force; the shield would take the blows for him. But going toe-to-toe against War Machine, with the firepower he knows the suit holds, against Rhodes, who is Tony’s best friend and brother, just like Bucky is Steve’s – that is something he can’t do.

He straps his shield back and puts his hands up in the air.

The operatives move in and force Bucky to his knees. The Panther Man raises his hands, while another operative moves Steve's arms behind his back. The Panther Man retracts his claws and pulls off his mask revealing a dark-skinned man with a pensive look on his face, much to Steve’s confusion.

“ _Wie lautet der befehl_?” the operative asks.

War Machine nods at the Panther Man. “Your highness.”

Bucky is hauled flat onto the ground beside him, while something in Steve withers like defeat.

War Machine turns to Steve now. “Congratulations, Cap. You’re a criminal.”

Rhodey’s voice hits something inside him, the inflection so disappointed.

Fuck, Tony’s going to kill him.

* * *

Tony tries one last time to get Steve to sign the Accords, promises that Bucky will be treated fairly by the justice system, _he’ll make sure of it_. Hell, he’ll even make sure that Steve and Sam are absolved for the destruction wrought in Bucharest (Steve didn’t know that twelve operatives died in his onslaught, never mind the fourteen civilians killed and a dozen more gravely injured during his mad dash through the tunnel – it’s tragic, but they can’t save everyone).

All Steve has to do is sign the Accords.

At this point, Tony is begging. There’s no pride there, there’s no ego. Tony is, if anything scared, and Steve has never wanted that, not from Tony. He’s only ever wanted to protect Tony, keep him safe, stop the world from pulling him to pieces the way he _knows_ the vultures would if they just got a chance (but he won’t ever let that happen). 

“Steve,” Tony murmurs, reaching a hand across the table and gripping his firmly. “I’m begging you, Steve. You still have one more shot. You sign now, and we make everything legit. Please, Steve, sign the Accords.”

Steve grits his teeth. He hears the ache in Tony’s words, and Steve would give anything to get rid of it, but he can’t do this. He can’t do this.

God, will he ever stop failing this man that he loves?

Tony lunges to his feet. “You can’t still pretend that we don’t need any oversight, Steve! You _saw_ what happened in Bucharest. And this isn’t the first time something like this has happened.”

Steve’s mouth goes dry. “What are you talking about, Tony?”

“You can’t be that thick, Steve. There’s something going on with you, and you know it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Steve says, adamantly.

“You shot Killian point blank in the head, and you have no idea what I’m talking about?” Tony asks, incredulously.

Steve slams his hands on to the table, hard enough for the metal to crack (of all things, he can’t believe that Tony is throwing _that_ in his face). “Did you forget he tried to kill you? Multiple times? Kill Pepper? What I did was mercy; I should’ve broken every single bone in his body and then snapped his neck for what he did to you.”

Tony shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t just about Killian, okay. We’ve all seen it and we’ve-”

Steve slides to his feet. “ _We_?”

Tony grits his teeth. “Sam’s told me… some of the stuff you’ve done to the HYDRA agents you found while you were looking for Bucky. It’s _not_ okay.”

“Wait, you’re concerned about me knocking around a couple of Nazi bastards?” Steve snaps. “Think that through, Tony. You _really_ care what I do to a bunch of Nazis?”

“It’s not the Nazis that I’m objecting to, Steve,” Tony retorts. “It’s the fact that _you’re_ hurting them. _You_ , Steve. You could’ve chosen to bring them in, arrest them, but you _chose_ to work them over. You _chose_ to put them in the hospital. I’ve seen the pictures; I’ve seen the reports. One, you paralysed, you shot him in the back-”

“He was trying to get away!” Steve protests.

“Two died from internal bleeding,” Tony continues as if Steve never interjected. “A bunch of them have broken bones that’ll never heal; one, you bashed his skull so hard into the concrete that he’s in a fucking coma. You’re supposed to be better than the two-dollar thugs who beat on guys because they can bench press them.”

Steve shakes his head. “I can’t believe you’re sitting there and _judging_ me for what I do to fucking Nazis. I could kill them all and you shouldn’t be saying a word otherwise,” he snarls.

“Oh, my God, do you even hear yourself?” Tony demands. “Okay, fine, Steve. Let’s leave the Nazis out of it for a moment, because clearly you have an excuse for everything. In Bucharest, twelve of those task force operatives died, along with fourteen civilians. What the hell did you think you were doing?”

“I was trying to save Bucky,” Steve defends.

“At what cost?” Tony raises an eyebrow. “We’re supposed to _save_ people, Steve. Not hurt them. In Bucharest, you didn’t give a shit who got in your way, as long as _you_ got what _you_ wanted. That’s not what a hero does. I thought you _fought_ bullies; since when did you become one?”

Steve reels back like Tony has struck him, because Tony always knows which nerves to pluck.

“You think I’m a _bully_?” Steve whispers.

Tony takes a deep breath. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Steve scoffs. “Then how did you mean it?”

“I’m concerned, okay!” Tony shouts. “I’m concerned that you’ve been acting all Berserker, and it’s _scaring_ me.”

“ _It’s_ scaring you, or _I’m_ scaring you?” Steve asks, quietly.

Tony doesn’t answer, but his silence says volumes.

“ _You’re_ scared of me,” Steve says like he can’t quite believe what he’s saying. “I-I never wanted you to be scared of me.”

Tony grasps his jaw by his hands, pulling him down to press his forehead against Steve’s. “Listen to me,” he urges. “We don’t need to give these people any more of a reason to hate us. _Do you understand me_?”

“I don’t understand why you’re selling out,” Steve growls, wanting to pull away from Tony but he can’t quite bring himself to (it’s still Tony and Tony’s scared; he’s never been able to quit Tony and frankly, he doesn’t want to and he knows, in his bones, that Tony feels the same way).

“It’s not as easy as you think it is,” Tony insists. “And I’m sick of having to explain myself to you, Steve. Why can’t you just trust me?”

“Why can’t _you_ just trust _me_?” Steve retorts.

“Because what _you’re_ doing is not what the Steve Rogers I know would do.”

The conversation ends there because the alarm starts blaring. Steve and Tony exchange a look, and Tony switches back on the surveillance that he had scrambled when he and Steve had begun their conversation. On the screen is something like their worst nightmare: there is a man speaking slowly, calmly, to Bucky who is restrained and visibly struggling. Bucky’s fists are curled around nothing and his jaw is like stone.

Steve knows that, if he could, he’d be wrapping both hands around the psychiatrist’s throat and squeezing until the man’s life fell apart in his hands.

“For some reason, I don’t think he’s examining Bucky,” Tony mutters.

“Something’s wrong,” Steve says, immediately.

Tony nods, and they both rush out.

They’re too late, because by the time they chase Bucky down in the Joint Counter Terrorism Centre, Bucky has already mowed his way down ten agents, who are lying on the floor with various degrees of injury; some are even dead. Bucky is covering the psychiatrist (if he even is a psychiatrist), who’s watching with a level of calm that doesn’t bely the murderous rampage he has roused in Bucky, who is now more than the Winter Soldier than Steve has seen since the highway in DC.

“Bucky, stop,” Steve calls out and approaches him like a wounded animal. His hands are outstretched. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to _be_ this, not again.”

Bucky simply stares at him, his eyes hooded.

“Please, Bucky, I don’t want to have to fight you again.”

Tony shoulders him. While the Tom Ford makes Tony look like one hell of a dish, Steve knows it won’t guarantee his partner any safety and the last thing he wants or needs is for Tony to get hurt. But Tony surprises him yet again, when he taps his watch in a deliberate rhythm, stretching over a hot-rod red gauntlet to cover his palm, the repulsor whirring as he aims it at Bucky and the psychiatrist.

Steve grits his teeth and glares at the psychiatrist. “You’ll pay for this,” he warns.

The psychiatrist smiles. “Captain, I already have.”

“Who the hell are you?” Tony demands.

“I am, or I _was_ rather, Colonel Helmut Zemo, Sokovian Intelligence,” Zemo replies.

Tony flinches beside Steve, and he both aches to comfort him and lay into Zemo for digging into Tony’s weak spot – Sokovia will always be Tony’s unwanted shadow, and Tony feels so much more than Steve does.

“This is about Sokovia? That’s why you’re doing this?” Steve asks, coldly.

“Sokovia was a failed state long before you blew it to hell,” Zemo scoffs. “No. I'm here because I made a promise.”

Steve exhales. “You lost someone?”

_Isn’t that how the story goes?_

“I lost everyone,” Zemo corrects him. “And so, will you.”

Zemo thumbs at his phone and there’s a flicker on the screens in the room.

“An empire toppled by its enemies can rise again. But one which crumples from within? That's dead… forever.”

Both Tony and Steve turn their heads, only to see grainy, video footage playing on the screen of a car crashing into a tree, thoroughly destroying the fender. Steve’s stomach falls out from underneath him as he sees Bucky ride up on the screen, just as an older, greyer Howard stumbles out of the car, a darker patch of grey near the crown of his head.

“ _Help my wife. Please. Help._ ”

Steve watches as Tony flinches when his father is hit over and over and over again with Bucky’s metal fist, until his skull caves in with the impact. He clutches at Tony’s hand, dragging him away from the screen, holding him close.

“Tony, don’t watch. Please, don’t watch,” Steve pleads.

Tony turns to stone because he can’t escape, because each and every screen in the room, each and every phone and tablet and computer in the centre and the world is playing the exact same video on a loop that has him wanting to claw at his skull if it would make him stop hearing his mother cry out his father’s name as his body slumps to the ground.

“Tony, _please_.”

Natasha and Sam are right behind him, watching in horror as Tony goes virtually catatonic hearing his mother gasp for breath as the Winter Soldier chokes her to death. There are no tears, no sobs, no wails of grief left in Tony (how can there be when he’s imagined their deaths over and over again and this isn’t even the worst thing his imagination came up with?).

Tony just doesn’t want to be here anymore, and it shows.

Steve is more helpless today, in this moment, than he has ever been. This is worse than Bucky falling from that train, this is worse than seeing Killian looming over Tony, this is worse than facing a Bucky who doesn’t know him, and this is worse than Tony being scared of him.

This is hell.

And hell breeds demons.

He releases Tony and lunges for Zemo. Bucky stands resolutely in between him and Zemo, but a single vicious punch to his head sends Bucky into darkness. Steve doesn’t hesitate in throwing Zemo into the wall, unable to get the sight of Tony’s face, numb and empty, as he stares at his parents being brutally murdered, out of his face. Zemo hits the wall with a pained grunt, his spine curving forwards with the impact.

But Steve doesn’t care.

He can’t- _no_ , he _won’t_ stop until Zemo is broken open on the floor.

Steve hits him again and again and again until blood is running down his knuckles and there’s something pink and grey showing in the mush of what is left of Zemo’s skull.

_Why couldn’t you have left Tony alone? Why did you have to hurt him? All Tony does is help people and all you fuckers do is try and hurt him. He fucking deserves better._

_Well, I’m done._

_I’m fucking done._

There are people who try and pull him off Zemo, and they get caught in the crossfire because he has no mercy anymore (this piece of shit hurt Tony, used Tony’s grief as a fucking performance for the whole world to see and mock; he deserves everything Steve can inflict upon him and _more_ ). Anyone who tried to stop him may be dead for all he cares, but he can’t stop.

Zemo is dead, but he can’t stop.

He just keeps hitting.

The rage in him burns hot and fast, like it hasn’t in years.

_Bucky falls from the train._

He hits.

_The ice swallows him._

He hits.

_His world forges ahead without him._

He hits.

_Peggy is lost to him._

He hits.

_New York is razed to the ground._

He hits.

_Tony’s mansion falls into the ocean, with him inside._

He hits.

_HYDRA brutalises Bucky for seventy years and he didn’t stop it._

He hits.

_Johannesburg is wrecked, and they won’t let him help._

He hits.

_Sokovia falls._

He hits.

_He fucks up Lagos._

He hits.

_People die in Bucharest._

He hits.

_Tony is scared of him._

_Oh, God, Tony is scared of him._

More and more people try and get in between him and Zemo, but they fail, much to their doom, because kindness, compassion, mercy, they all seem so strange to him and he takes it out on them for a brief, distracted moment, before returning to Zemo, who is just a puddle of flesh, blood and bare, cracked bone at this point.

“Steve!”

The voice doesn’t cut through the hot rage churning right through him.

“Steve! Stop!”

Something hits him right in the chest and it burns like fire, bodily throwing him off Zemo. He skids across the linoleum and hits the opposite wall with a grunt. He stumbles to his feet, his teeth bared, forehead damp with sweat, blood staining his knuckles, only to come face-to-face with a grim, resigned Tony, his hand outstretched, the gauntlet fuming.

“I told you. I _told_ you something was fucking wrong,” Tony’s voice breaks half-way.

Steve takes a step forward, deflating, his mouth dry. “Tony, I-”

“Look, just, _look_ at what you did, Steve,” Tony insists, desperately.

Because it’s Tony asking, he does.

Bucky’s rampage is nothing compared to this.

He ignores the curdled mess of Zemo’s body because there is nothing that could make him regret _that_. But there are at least a dozen more bodies strewn on the floor, unmoving, blood and viscera streaking across the floor like something out of a horror movie. Some have limbs pared off. Some have actual _holes_ in their body.

Steve digs his heels in – he was right; they shouldn’t have interfered.

He turns around.

Sam and Natasha are two of the wounded.

They’re lying up against a wall, thankfully still alive, but Sam’s clutching his arm to his chest and his leg is at an impossible angle in a way that tells Steve that the bones are broken. Natasha has a gaping wound in the side of her head, from which she’s frantically trying to stem the bleeding.

Steve feels a twinge of remorse, but he shuts it down as quick as it comes.

“Why did they get involved? They shouldn’t have gotten involved!”

Tony makes a loud noise of frustration. “You’re blaming _them_?” he shouts. “Are you fucking kidding me? You just killed more than a _dozen_ people, who were just trying to do their fucking jobs by stopping a deranged super soldier from _decimating_ a terrorist, and _you’re fucking blaming your victims?_ ”

“Tony, I only went after Zemo because he hurt _you_ ,” Steve insists, taking a step forward.

But Tony flinches away, and his face goes white with anger.

“Don’t you _dare_ defend yourself,” he says, quietly. “Don’t you dare.”

“Tony, _please_.”

“You don’t deserve that shield; you don’t deserve to be Captain America,” Tony growls. “Captain America is supposed to be better than just some fucking animal with an axe to grind. What happened to you?”

“Everything I’ve done is to protect _you_ , defend you, make this world a better place for _you_ ,” Steve stands firm (he can’t-he _won’t_ waver now).

“ _Shut up_!” Tony roars and his eyes are red with tears. “Don’t-don’t you dare put this on me. Don’t you _dare_ make _me_ responsible. This was _all_ you.”

Tony lunges forward and fists his hand in the front of his suit, tearing the white star right off his chest, where the material is weakest from the repulsor blast. It comes off like paper, but it’s the shock that makes Steve jerk back.

Steve watches as Tony turns his back on him, kneeling beside Sam and Natasha. It doesn’t even register that they put shackles on him and lead him away. It doesn’t register when he’s put in a cell.

All he sees is Tony turning his back on him.

_God, he really is such a fuck-up._

* * *

When Steve looks up, Tony is standing on the other side of the glass, his eyes red, his face drawn like he hasn’t slept in days. If anger did burn quick and bright, he puts it away easily.

It’s Tony, after all.

“So, what is this place?” Steve asks, his voice rough from disuse (he won’t deign to speak to any of the guards who come to see the great Captain America brought low).

“The Raft,” Tony replies, quietly. “It’s where they put… _uncooperative_ … enhanced individuals.”

“The Accords?” Steve guesses.

“No, _no_ ,” Tony insists. “This wasn’t part of the Accords. The UN would never authorise this. This is Ross’ pet project, made with Bruce in mind.” His lips twist in distaste

“And you were going to let him do this to us?” Steve raises an eyebrow. “You let him do this to _me_?”

Tony flinches.

“Never,” he whispers. “I’d _never_ let him do this to you. I didn’t even know until it was already done. I was… I was with Sam and Natasha, and then I was in Romania.” Tony drags a hand across his face. “I thought you’d be in Avengers custody.”

Steve grimaces.

Tony is still cleaning up his mess.

Of course, he is.

“Now I can’t even do anything to change it,” Tony says, bitterly.

“Not that you would, if you could,” Steve finishes, resigned.

“You know, people keep defending you. And me,” Tony chuckles as if it’s a big joke. “ _Oh, he spent seventy years in the ice; clearly, he never really adjusted. Oh, he was in love; he just wanted to protect Stark_. And me: well, apparently, I’m your well-meaning, unsuspecting boytoy.” Tony’s mouth twists, unpleasantly. “I’m _always_ unsuspecting.” There’s a self-deprecating shake of his head. “ _He was in love_. Yeah. A lot of people are saying that. _He was in love_. _They just wanted to be together_. It’s _rubbish_. It’s an excuse. The argument stops when someone gets hurt. Then, it stops being _your_ love story and someone else’s nightmare.”

It comes out like a rush, and Tony looks like he’s about to wretch when he’s done.

“Tony-” Steve begins, gently, wishing he could just break through the glass and hold Tony’s hand (he knows he can’t; he’s already tried).

Tony’s shoulders slump. “Steve,” he whispers.

“It’s okay, Tony.”

Steve can’t help but smile, because it is.

Tony wouldn’t be Tony, the Tony he adores, if he isn’t trying to protect the world.

He just wishes Tony wasn’t trying to protect the world from him.

* * *

It’s 2018 and Tony comes to him, older, eyes with deeper lines, but still so handsome, so fierce.

Steve loves him still – hell, he’s pretty sure he’ll die loving this man.

“We need your help.”


End file.
